Year of the Scorpion
by lembas7
Summary: So through a glass and darkly, the age long strife I see, where I have fought in many guises, many names, but always me. [Mummy Returns, Count Meren series crossover.]
1. Part 1

**Disclaimer:** The characters and premise of _The Mummy_ and _The Mummy Returns_ are property of Stephen Somers. Lord Meren, and other assorted characters / information from that universe are property of Lynda S. Robinson.

**A/N:** "So through a glass and darkly, the age long strife I see, where I have fought in many guises, many names, but always me." – Gen. George S. Patton.

* * *

YEAR OF THE SCORPION

--------_June 21, 1933_---------

_Mark_

Clang!

_One dark eye peeped out from behind rich gold layered upon stone. _

_Through the masses of finely woven linen shifts and oiled skin, battle raged. _

_Four razored bronze edges came together; the boy winced. Courtiers murmured, shifting in the sudden absence of battle-noise. _

"_Put your mask on! Let's not scar that pretty face."_

_A scowl flirted with existence, was dismissed from Nefertiri's face. The noise of clashing blades scathed his ears, echoing in the court. Trident-daggers skidded across marble. _

_Meren's eyes widened. Fifteen he might be, husband and royal charioteer – but still in training. Crouched behind the column painted with hieroglyphs of gold proclaiming the reign of Amunhoteph III, he could see Pharaoh. The living god was not quite as expressionless as the Priest of Amun at his side. _

_Blasphemy it might be to think the living god so, but –_ He's worried. He cannot let the courtiers see . . .

_His daughter-in-law was demonstrating her prowess in battle against the newest royal wife. And she was losing._

Why is the Priest smiling?

_Clashes between Pharaoh and the priesthood of his father, the god Amun, were numerous and often; but as he glanced about the room Meren realized that few had their attention on the living god and the Priest Imhotep. The royal court was a nest of vipers, all now intent upon the 'practice' held before them. _

Lions hunting the ibex. _A shiver crawled down his spine on scorpion's legs._

_Flesh slammed into stone. _

_The battle axe was wrested from her grip; quick as a striking cobra, the tip of a spear hovered at Nefertiri's throat. _

_"You are learning quickly, Nefertiri. I'll have to watch my back." He'd once seen a cat smile so, flexing its claws into a rope of scales. Felines were sent in to kill the snakes, when one was loose inside. . ._

_"Yes. And I'll watch mine."_

_Blood rushed in his ears; his _ka_ struggled wildly within him. _Why am I so afraid?

_Meren drew a breath to calm his heart. Pharaoh was speaking. _

" _- protect the bracelet of Anubis than my lovely daughter, Nefertiri." _

_Young as he was, and untrained in the ways of the court, Meren still spied the way Pharaoh's words drew attention from the tension between the two. _He touched her! _The living god honored her – and Meren could see the jealous calculation in dozens of eyes. Princess, wedded to Amunhoteph IV and favorite of the Great Royal Wife, Queen Tiye, Nefertiri was far above the preening men and women arrayed in sheer linens and wigs, draped with gold and lapis lazuli. _

_Especially the firstborn son of Amosis; his father was only a nobleman, courtier, and Friend of Pharaoh. Though no longer wearing the sidelock of youth, Meren had yet to be counted among the battle-tested warriors. _

_But in the royal court, efforts to scrounge power and prestige were timeless as the gods of Egypt. With that touch, Nefertiri had gained false friends and enemies beyond count._

"_And who better to protect me than my future wife, Anck-su-namun."_

"_Son of Amosis."_

_Meren whirled – he hadn't heard – _

_The Grand Vizier smiled down at him. Ay held a staff, though he was not yet bent with the age that had silvered his hair and carved lines in the skin around his eyes. That the man had remembered him was a surprise; Meren had only rarely been to court, as an attendant to Amosis. _

_He licked dry lips, murmuring a formal greeting. _

"_I believe your father is looking for you."_

_The chill of the palace clutched Meren's _ka.

"_Ay!" Amosis was a man made large with good food and drink. His frown deepened upon seeing Meren, and the youth paled._

"_Amosis." Only one whose place was at the right hand of Pharaoh could exhibit such unconcern. Or such disregard for the prestige of others. _

_Meren was so saturated with trepidation that he could do naught but stare. For long moments the words of his elders flew above his head. His fate, once they reached home, did not bear contemplation. _

_"Boy!" his father snapped. _

_Meren straightened, lowering his eyes and addressing his father immediately. "My Lord?" _

_"He does not seem so ill-mannered, Amosis," Ay commented, a smile twitching at his lips. _

_Amosis snorted in disgust. "The boy is willful and disobedient, lazy in his studies. I pray daily that training with the royal guard will remedy some of his faults."_

_Meren kept his face still with effort, though he could not prevent the dull flush creeping into his face. He was not yet skilled at wearing a courtier's expressionless mask. But that would change. _

He shoved tangled blankets away, the air cool on sweat-drenched skin. Mark Fletcher scrambled from his bed, the echoes of harsh breathing loud in his ears.

Noise from the sleeping ranch crept into his senses. The rain muffled it, but reality reached soothingly out to him. Dark eyes blinked. Heaving lungs steadied. _A dream?_

"What the hell?"

-------_August 19, 1933_----------

_Rick_

_Master bathroom shot to pieces. Two bookshelves, a rug, and table from the back parlor. And that weapon still sticking out of the wall in the hallway - _

The figure that staggered through the kitchen door interrupted his catalogue of the damage done to the house. His brother-in-law, mussed from sleep that had left bruised bags under bloodshot eyes, dropped into his chair and made an effort at manners that emerged as a bleary moan. "G'mornin'. What's for eating, then?"

"Good afternoon, Uncle Jon," his son corrected, smothering a little giggle in his bowl of soup.

A hand flapped in the direction of the youngest at the table. "Whatever."

There was surprising silence as Evie stirred a bubbling pot on the stove. It didn't have a chance in hell of lasting, Rick reflected.

_Sluuuuurp._

Jonathan rolled his eyes.

"Alex."

_Sluuuuuuuuuuurp._

Evie swallowed her sigh. "_Alex._"

The blond mop lifted, flashing a devil-may-care grin at the table. _Great._ He should know – he'd seen the expression often enough in the mirror. "Listen to your mother, Alex."

"Da-_ad_!"

Evie, stern as she turned to the stove. "Don't slurp your soup."

Blue eyes pleaded. He could never resist that look . . . . _Later,_ he mouthed. Alex grinned at him. Rick winked back.

Evie reached for ladle and bowl, passing it off to her brother. "Be careful, it's –"

"Hot!" Jonathan yelped.

A lunge saved the ceramic bowl from smashing and spattering its contents across the floor. _Hot! _"Geez!"

Thin cheeks bulged, blowing frantically on stinging, red fingers. Jonathan's eyes teared. "What the bloody -"

"Jonathan! Watch your language!"

Alex giggled, crouched against wicker seating.

He couldn't resist, and didn't bother suppressing his grin. "Evie did just pull it off the stove, Jonathan." An embarrassed sigh reached him. _No time like the present._ "Evie and I were wondering if you would take Alex to the British Museum today."

"But I want to stay with you!"

_And cue the temper tantrum._ Alex's objection wasn't entirely unexpected.

Rick turned to look his son in the eye. "It's only for the afternoon, Alex. Your mom and I thought you might want to have some fun before you have to start school again."

"But school's not for another month!" Alex protested again. His uncle was sipping his soup carefully, one eye on the exchange and the other on the steam rising from his bowl.

"But you're going to be helping us get the house together again," Evie told him, ruffling blond hair before turning back to the stove. "And then we've got to make sure you're still up to date in all your subjects, before you go back."

Alex groaned. "But _Mum_, that stuff's boring."

"That doesn't mean you don't have to learn it." _I might be a pushover, but even I draw the line somewhere._ And his family knew that education was the point Rick wouldn't budge on.

Crestfallen blue eyes dropped; arguing would get him nowhere, slow. "Alright."

"Well, Jonathan?"

Silence. Rick frowned. _Jonathan's not hungover – but he's awfully pale -_

"It would only be for the afternoon." Evie turned back to the table, catching sight of her brother's wide eyes. "Jonathan, are you alright?"

_Hiisssssss._

A shadow was slithering across the tiles of the kitchen floor, toward his wife. She frowned, and he remembered that look from a tomb, and the hiss of patterned red, yellow, and black. Finger grabbed for something, anything, on the table.

Before Evie could heft the snake out of the way with a toe, he threw it. He didn't know what it was, but it struck with an accurate _thunk_, and then the snake was flailing wildly on the floor, its serpentine body painting a writhing trail of red across tile.

Motion in the corner of his eye assured him that Evie had leapt up on a chair, out of the way.

Scales twitched, twice more, and were still.

"Rick!"

He shrugged, unapologetic, moving over to examine the snake himself. It didn't react to the nudge of a booted foot, and so he pulled the knife from its body. The blade had lodged an inch or so below the base of the skull, not high enough for a quick death, but effective nonetheless.

"What _is_ that?" Alex asked, intrigued.

"That," his wife responded tartly, "is one of my good table knives."

_I'm in trouble. _Rick tossed her a playful, little-boy smile, and she smiled back before she could help it. "It's an Egyptian asp," he informed their son, grasping the dead snake behind its head. It never hurt to be cautious.

"Are they poisonous?"

It was Jonathan who answered, his face a pasty grey. Soup spattered the front of his shirt; the spoon had disappeared into the deep bowl. "You bet."

"I'll get rid of it," Rick offered. "I was done with my food anyway."

If anything, Jonathan's face went whiter at that, and his brother-in-law swallowed, locking eyes on the grain of the wood supporting their meal. "I think I've lost my appetite."

Rick heard the noisy gulp of someone ordering their stomach to stay in place as he passed, aiming for the door.

"Neat!"

"Oh, no you don't!" came from behind him.

Rick found a bag for the thing, so it wouldn't drip gore down the hallway behind him. Dropping chill, limp scales and wrapping them with cloth, he listened to Evie scold Alex for not finishing his soup. His son's voice rose in protest – was cut off by soft reason.

"Dad! Wait up!" Small feet pounded after him, bouncing golden hair and sparkling blue eyes above a furiously chewing mouth. "Mum made me finish the vegetables," he complained as soon as his tongue was free. "I don't _like_ carrots!"

"They're good for you," Rick unlocked the gardener's shed. "Grab that shovel, okay Alex?"

"Yeah. What are you going to do with it?" Metal scraped rocks; the shovel was bigger than Alex, however the little boy hefted it.

"Bury it, on the edge of the property."

"Did you know that asps -" and Alex was off, chattering over the bite of edged metal into sod.

A moment with a shovel in the far side of the drive and the snake was part of the past. Blond hair bobbed as his son, bored with the burying of the reptile, raced back to the house. Rick's pace was a bit more sedate. He was still a bit sore from being beaten to hell and back by both Imhotep and the Scorpion king; the marks where fiery hands had tried to pull him into the underworld had not yet faded.

_I'm glad she decided to take the job as curator._ Dropping the shovel against the wall of the gardener's shed, Rick snapped the padlock closed again.

Evie had agonized over the decision, before finally accepting the Bembrich Scholars' offer. _At least now, she'll be safe. _

------------------------

_Alex_

"And Mum said that they keep the – wow!"

Uncle Jon laughed. "Your mum hasn't changed all that much, Alex."

A blond head shook in denial. "Look, Uncle Jon, look! It's the mummy of the priest Manetho! I'll bet it was in the basement all this time!"

He _would_, too. No bet like a sure thing, Dad always said. _He also said never to wager anything with Uncle Jon. _Not that Alex would lose, knowing his mum's brother. But they'd none of them get Uncle Jon to shut up about it after.

Mr. Hafez had kept so much of the really neat stuff locked away down there. Mum would kill him if she knew how much he'd used Dad's lessons on lock picking. But he had to practice! _And_ he hadn't gotten caught.

"Come on, come on!"

Alex pulled his uncle's hand with all his might. But the older man seemed reluctant to get very near the glass mummy cases. _It was ages ago._ Alex shook off a lingering shudder of his own. Well, not _ages_. But a week was close enough.

"Don't you want to go look at the dinosaurs, Alex?"

"Yeah, right, Uncle Jon," Alex scoffed.

And they had the whole room all to themselves. Well, almost. The only other person was a grown-up all the way down at the other end, looking at a stone sarcophagus. Alex thought of all the other kids he'd seen here with their parents. _Babies._ Too scared to see the mummies. They were only here because it was raining outside, anyway.

"D'you know how they make the mummies, Uncle Jon?"

The older man groaned, very faintly.

"Mum told me! They take a sharp poker and stick it up your nose, smush all your brains up and then rip 'em out through your nostrils!" Alex pulled his nose away from the glass long enough to frown at his Uncle. There was a strange noise . . . _Weird._ "Are you all right, Uncle Jon?"

"Fine, fine." Uncle Jon waved a hand at him. His face was a nasty whitish color.

Taking that as a sign of interest, Alex kept going. " – out after ninety days." _Ooh!_ The sarcophagus he'd seen in the basement, but there hadn't been enough light to tell what the hieroglyphs meant – "After they brush all the natron – that's the salt – off, the skin's all black and shriveled and dry. 'Course, you gotta say the right prayers an' stuff before you start to – ummph!"

He'd bounced right off it, whatever it was. The floor was _hard._

"I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"

A strange hand, extended, helping him up. Alex brushed himself down. Uncle Jon was checking him over. "Yeah. Sorry."

"Thanks for the help," Uncle Jon said jovially. He stuck out a hand. "You're American?"

Alex cricked his head back to get a good look at the man. _Tall!_ Well, Dad was taller. But Dad was taller than _everyone_.

The man gave Uncle Jonathan a curious look, but shook his hand. "I am. My name is Mark Fletcher."

"Jon Carnahan, and this is my nephew Alex," Uncle Jon said.

Alex stuck out a hand. Mum said not to talk to strangers, but Uncle Jon was here. And shaking hands was . . . weird. No one in England did it. No one in Egypt, either. But Americans did.

"Sorry," he said again. "I didn't see you. I was reading the hieroglyphs."

"That's very impressive."

Alex gave him the _eye._ Whenever a teacher at school said that, they were just treating him like a little kid. _I don't lie!_ He wouldn't, especially about something like that. Even if he did, from time to time, forget to mention things. Like his trips to the basement of the British Museum. _But they're not all that important anyway._

But Mr. Fletcher didn't _look_ like he was laughing at Alex on the inside, the way other grown-ups did. "My mum taught me."

"Bloody awful to have a baby sister who's such a know-it-all," his uncle put in glibly.

"Uncle Jon!" cried Alex. Blue eyes widened. _No, wait, don't! _A hand ruffled his hair anyway. "Hey!"

"So," his uncle changed the subject, directing his attention back toward the stranger. "How do you like London?"

_It's a nice smile,_ Alex decided. The man's face warmed with it, making him look friendlier. "Today doesn't count," the boy put in. "Rain never does."

"Of course," Mr. Fletcher said solemnly. "I do like London quite a bit. Though I came across some workers hauling a mangled bus out of an alley. Someone drove it into a low bridge – scraped the whole top level off."

"Ah. Shame," Uncle Jon managed. His forehead gleamed in the lighting; he was sweating.

Alex snickered, and went back to looking at the hieroglyphs. _'Behold, I am in thy presence, O Lord of Amentet.' The Book of the Dead!_

"There was no one in it, but I thought I heard something about a crushed mummy skeleton." Mr. Fletcher shrugged. "It was odd; I don't think I'll be using the public transportation anytime soon."

"Oh, that doesn't happen often," Alex vaguely heard Uncle Jon. '_Grant thou that I may be like unto those favored ones who are in thy following, and that I may be an Osiris greatly favored of the beautiful god, and beloved of the Lord of the Two Lands –'_

"I've lost track of the time. I must be going. It was nice meeting you."

"And you," Uncle Jon nodded.

Alex managed to peel his attention from the inscription – it was just getting to the good part, the Weighing of the Heart! "'Bye!"

"Americans," his uncle grunted, as the man's coat swiftly vanished through the door.

Alex grinned.

' _– And beloved of the Lord of the Two Lands, I who am a veritable royal Treasurer who loveth thee, Maya, whose word is true before the god Osiris.'_

------------------------

_Evelyn_

"_Look out!"_

Muscle barreled into her, and she was slammed between marble and flesh.

The floor seemed to tremble beneath her, accompanied by a thunderous roar.

Silence, unexpected and absolute.

The Museum tilted on its axis once more.

"Ma'am? Ma'am?"

She registered the harsh, familiar accent even as the world swirled around her. Evelyn O'Connell took a breath, ordered her vision to stop its nonsense, and blinked.

Crouched between her, and the remains of a massive stone block that had snapped free of its tethering ropes, was a dark-eyed American.

"You're hurt!" Surprised, she reached for the trickling redness on his neck, and found her hand firmly grasped by the body that was propping her up.

"There now," came a familiar firm voice. "Just take it easy, Curator."

"Hugh?" She was even more confused. What was her 'assistant' doing here?

The white-haired man had been a major force in keeping the British Museum up and running for the past two decades. He'd also dandled her on his knee when she was barely out of nappies. Hugh _tutt_ed at her. "You've had quite the scare." Though from the way his voice was shaking . . .

Frustrated with all the attention, she took a deep breath, tasting coarse rock dust. "Thank you," she told him, squeezing cold fingers reassuringly. "But I really must get up."

"If you insist," Hugh muttered with a grin, hauling her to her feet. Once there, she was able to survey the damage.

Taking in the white-faced workers, tattered ropes and nearby rubble that had been a two tonne block in the temple's east wall, she shivered. _I owe him my life_, she realized, and turned to thank the stranger.

He had followed them to their feet, but rather than look over the disaster, he was shakily braced against the scaffolding. A white handkerchief stemmed the flow of blood.

"Are you quite all right?"

Brown eyes, blank of intent or expression, focused in on her.

She frowned. _I could read more in a stella. But he doesn't look well. _He'd taken a good knock to the head – pieces of the block, hefty and jagged, littered the ground.

"Yes." The man's attention wavered, split between her continual regard, and the scene. Taking in what was going on, with a swift glance.

"Are you sure?" Hugh didn't look convinced, either. And she trusted his eye.

Evelyn nodded toward him, giving Hugh a _look_ when he seemed reluctant to let her go. "I'm perfectly all right," she hissed, trying to quell the flush that wanted to rise in her cheeks. "Thanks to him."

Her short assistant ran a hand over cloudy strands, shifting his attention to where bone-white knuckles gripped metal scaffolding.

Brown eyes blinked dizzily.

"Watch it!" Hugh called, bracing the stranger as he swayed.

A curse slipped from between clenched teeth.

_That's one I don't think Rick's ever heard. _Evelyn tamped down on a smile, moved to the man's other side. "Did you send someone for a doctor?"

Hugh nodded. "Paul's a good lad – more sense than most. He'll be back right quick."

The tall body at her side shifted. Her move to steady him was unnecessary. _Whiter than a sheet, though. _"And where do you think you're going?"

The stranger stared down at her, raised a quiet brow. "There's a bench, over there. It might be prudent to get out of the way."

"Of course," she decided, glancing at Hugh. "Come along, then."

While he seemed a tad shaky, there was no risk that he was going to pass out as they crossed the room. And while they sat and waited for the doctor to arrive, it gave her a little time to try to thank him properly.

He shrugged it off. "I just saw what was happening before anyone else did. I hope you aren't hurt?"

"A few bumps. Nothing new to me," she assured him. "Oh, that reminds me. My name is Evelyn O'Connell. I'm the Curator of the British Museum." It still felt funny to say. She held out a hand.

He gave her a puzzled little glance, but shook firmly. _Calluses. No businessman._ The sun-tanned skin gave lie to the idea that he might spend his days indoors. "Mark Fletcher."

"You're familiar with the mechanics of construction, Mr. Fletcher?" Hugh, trying to be pleasant, trying to distract him.

A pause. "A little. I know my way around the ropes, so to speak."

Though if the vertical line between his brows was any indication, there was little they could do to distract him from the awful headache he must have.

"Madam Curator!"

The American winced.

Evelyn turned at the shout, and bit down a sigh of relief. "Paul," she smiled. "And Dr. Warren, thank you for coming so quickly."

Rose Warren gave her a quick grin. "All right there, Evie?"

"Never better. Just a little banged up," she amended, at the green gaze's skepticism.

"It might have been a lot worse," Hugh's face was drawn, and she reached out. Hugh was practically her uncle; a long-standing friend of their father, since before either Jonathan or Evelyn herself was born.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. Sticklike fingers gripped hers, and the assistant curator gave her a weak smile.

"It's thanks to this gentleman here that she wasn't killed," Hugh continued. Evelyn saw green eyes shift again, wasting a moment on appraisal and then becoming professional once more. He _was_ attractive, she agreed. But he was also bleeding quite a lot, and very pale.

Rose got straight down to business. The bag opened; Hugh and Evie gave her room. "Name?"

He flinched back from the light shining in his eyes. "Mark Fletcher."

"Birthday?" The bloody cloth was tugged from his fingers.

"December 14, 1899."

"Where are you from?" Rose turned his head to the side; he simply shifted, moving his body out of her way.

"Durham, Montana."

"How many fingers?"

"Two."

What looked to be not-so-gentle poking at the cut. Evie winced in sympathy. "Does that hurt?"

_I'd think so_, she thought wryly. Jonathan had fallen and knocked himself senseless on a dig when they were young. Her parents had been frightened for him; but he'd gotten in even more trouble for playing near a shaft he'd been told to stay away from.

Gritted teeth. "Yes."

Swabs and alcohol came out; the pungent odor had Hugh and Evie wrinkling their noses. Rose was plainly used to it, but Mr. Fletcher.. . _I can't ready any expression on his face._ She glanced at the discarded, crimson-dotted kerchief. _Why does that bother me so?_

"I think you need stitches."

"I'm not surprised."

Rose gave him a careful look, and Evie hid a smile at the quick riposte. There was no trace of expression on his face, no hint as to if he'd been baiting the petite, fiery doctor. But she thought he might be.

"And you have a concussion," Rose continued, never missing a beat.

Evie brought a hand up, ostensibly in thought. It covered her smile just as well. Nothing threw Rose for long. _But a concussion . . . _She couldn't help the pang of guilt.

"It's not serious, but you do need to rest. Unfortunately, I'd recommend that you have someone wake you every hour, for the next twenty-four. Is someone traveling with you?"

"No."

Rose gave him a considering look. Back into the bag went the swabs. She paused, hands on metal latches. "I would suggest, then, that you come with me to the hospital for overnight observation."

Even quieter. "No."

A green glare met impassive brown, bounced off. _Oh, dear. Looks like I've finally found someone as stubborn as Rose._ She wondered, a little absently, if the world could stand it.

"Excuse me, Madam Curator?"

Paul, nervously twisting his cap in thick hands. The young man was head of one of the teams of laborers hired to help reconstruct the Tomb of Perneb in the Egyptian gallery.

"Yes?"

"Ma'am – we were wondering what to do now that the mess's been cleared up. The block from the east wall was destroyed in the fall -" As had been part of the floor, and she was only thankful she hadn't been under it at the time. Leaving Hugh to mediate between the stubborn doctor and recalcitrant patient, she returned to work. _At least this way I can be sure neither of them will run off before I have the chance to speak with them._

Fifteen minutes solved the problem of how to continue on their timetable to reconstruct the temple. Ordering a replacement wasn't the most authentic solution, but it was the simplest. The broken block was not completely destroyed; it would be put on exhibit as well, in a separate case. _But the information that was lost – _

Evelyn grimaced, heading back to where Rose was sitting behind the American. Hugh was holding a light close and looking as if he had no idea how he'd gotten there. _Though knowing Rose, she simply told him what to do, and he found himself listening before he really thought about what he was getting into._

She managed a grin at the thought. Long experience had told her that laughing at her troubles was the best solution; at least until she could get back to her husband's arms and cry out her fears to him. It was never so difficult when there was someone to share the load. _Rick . . . _

"Evelyn?" Hugh kept his voice low. Rose reached out absently and tilted his hand to direct the light back at the cut. Which she was sewing, disgruntled at having lost the battle.

"What?" She found blue eyes checking her concernedly once more.

"I think you should go home."

She balked immediately, blinking. _Why on Earth would I –_

Hugh backpedaled. "Let me take care of the rest of the clean-up. Nothing more can get done today, until the workers check the equipment. You've made arrangements for tomorrow. We can still open the exhibit on schedule, if the masons are quick. Go home, take a rest."

Evelyn sighed. Hugh knew how to be persuasive, and – _I am tired._

He pressed, just a little. "See your husband and son." A pause. "You had a close shave, today."

_Rick. Alex._ That decided it. "All right."

"Evie!" A beloved voice. Her eyes widened.

"I had Paul call him," Hugh admitted.

"Hugh, you're a darling!"

He laughed. "On with you, now!"

She turned, was caught up in strong arms. Strength, enfolding her in love. A heart beating in tandem with her own. _Rick . . . _

------------------------

_Rick_

When he saw the destruction, his heart nearly stopped. _Oh, my God._ No one seemed hurt, there was no sign of injury or panic – just the remnants of adrenaline. _Shell-shock._

And rubble, from the massive stone block, scattered far over the floor. The workers looked to be cleaning up the worst of it, but –

Rick took a deep breath. _Where's Evie!_

And a beautiful, beloved voice calling out instructions to the men working with tools and ropes. Moving, a little stiffly but moving, toward –

He saw Dr. Rose Warren, and his heart sped up once more. "Evie!"

Soft curves and curls and grey eyes smiling up at him. "Rick," she breathed.

Arms around one another, they held tight, trading soft whispers. In this moment, the world was just them.

Minutes it took, for his heart to slow, to match hers. Comforted. The fear that it all might have been ripped away was slow to leave him. _God, Evie._ But he didn't need the memory of Ahm Sher now. He held her at arm's length a moment. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Truly. A few bruises, but -"

He saw in grey eyes how close it had been. Swallowed hard.

"I want you to come to the hospital for overnight observation."

They turned, and Rick saw for the first time the person Rose had been treating. His height, maybe a little shorter – he couldn't tell, as the other was sitting. Lean, with brown hair and eyes, tiny lines of pain around the lips. White bandage just below the hairline on the back of his neck. "No."

_I've never seen Rose turn quite that shade of red before._ Green eyes lit with anger. Rick winced, anticipating –

"Thank you, Dr. Warren." Soothing words, as the man stood. _He's American. I'll be damned._ Rick saw the caution in every move, and knew the doctor did as well. "But there's really no need."

Rose opened her mouth, fury mounting.

Rick stepped in. "Mark Fletcher?" His grip was firm. "I'm Rick O'Connell."

"Evelyn!" he heard Rose hiss. And then the two of them were three steps away, whispering lowly and thick as thieves. _My Evie . . ._

"Evie told me what you did for her." He kept his voice low, for the other's ears only. "I can't thank you enough."

Brown eyes studied him a moment, seemed to give up whatever they had been going to say. "You're welcome," he said quietly. He reached down, and stuffed a bloodied handkerchief in his pocket.

"Well, he can stay with us," Evie put into the silence between them. Rick turned, mildly surprised, and saw the other man stiffen.

"No, thank you. I couldn't possibly -"

"It's no trouble," Evie cut him off, clearly having made up her mind. "It's only one night, after all."

The other American stepped back, uncomfortable and searching for something to say.

Rose looked relieved that someone would be watching her patient. "He needs to be woken every hour. If you can't, then call me, immediately. It's a minor concussion, but there's still a chance he could slip into a coma if there's a complication."

"Rick?" Evelyn asked, sudden uncertainty in her gaze.

"It's your house more than mine, love," he whispered back. "Actions speak louder than words." The man had saved his wife, and Rick was in his debt. If the other man needed help because he'd been hurt while doing so -

Rose snapped a few more instructions at them, before giving Fletcher one last intimidating glare. She seemed quite put off when the man didn't even notice, and stomped off in a huff.

Rick whistled, lowly, and caught an elbow in the ribs. "Evie?"

"Don't make fun of Rose," she scolded. But that familiar grey gleam warmed him through.

He pulled her against him, and left off with teasing her about her spitfire best friend, more easily than he might have an hour ago. "Alright."

Evie frowned a little. _Can't get anything by her._

Motion in the corner of his eye brought Rick's head up. "Mr. Fletcher?"

Caught, the man stopped. _Sneaking away?_ He didn't blame the other; it was an awkward situation. He'd at least had a few years to get used to overwhelming English hospitality. "Car's out front," he said. "Let's go home."

------------------------

_Mark_

Sunlight. _Praise be to Ra._

He pushed the thought, and the last shreds of the strange dream, into the deep recesses of his _ka_. _What a godawful night. _Finished dressing, Mark smoothed the bedclothes of the richly-furnished room.

Every hour, on the hour. A touch to his shoulder, a voice in his ear. Woken, and barely back asleep before it was time to prove once more that he hadn't fallen into a coma.

His watch read almost five hours into the new day, but it was more than enough for him. _I don't know how I let myself get talked into this._

Oh, it had been incredibly awkward. The doctor so insistent, when all he wanted was to go to the closest approximation of home he had in this country – which for the month was a small flat, almost outside the city – and sleep. He'd had concussions before; two, to be precise. He didn't _need_ to be observed.

"Good morning."

He turned. Rick O'Connell leant in the doorway. The man had been much easier about allowing a complete stranger into his home than Mark would have been. Though that might have had something to do with a whispered conversation between husband and wife. He'd never seen a man blanch so quickly; but he wasn't unfamiliar with the feeling. _Irony and fine wine are the only things that improve with age._

"Morning."

A tired, wry smile reminded him that he wasn't the only one who hadn't slept last night. "Sleep well?"

Mark managed a smile of his own, eyes sweeping the room. _Good. I have everything._ "Thank you."

"No." The blond head shook slowly. "You saved Evie – I owe you more than I could ever repay."

He'd been avoiding this conversation since the previous evening. "Well, you saved me from spending a night in the clutches of that doctor, even if you didn't know it." He shuddered lightly, hoping the other man would take his cue, and just let it go.

White teeth flashed. "Rose Warren?"

Mark shut the bedroom door with a wince. "Yes."

"A holy terror."

"She couldn't wait to have me locked in the hospital, at her mercy," Mark said dryly. "Call it even."

Mulish stubborn, the other American, with a look of blank refusal on his face. But Mark had broken some of Montana's most willful stallions to bridle. O'Connell opened his mouth, ready to spill protestations into his ears.

"Please," Mark cut him off. Drew on a five-thousand year old memory of calm, and an expressionless mask in the face of murder and intrigue. "It was an accident – everyone was lucky. You owe me nothing."

The blond head nodded, thoughtful. "All right." The sparkling grin surprised Mark. _I know that expression._ He'd swear he'd never seen the man before, and the name O'Connell wasn't exactly rare. "Hungry?"

"I wouldn't say no to food," Mark replied carefully.

"To the kitchen."

_How long has he been in England?_ It seemed only moments later Mark was seated in a bright, airy room with a heaping plate in front of him and overwhelming hospitality perched on two chairs nearby, luckily preoccupied with one another. American accent or not, he'd been ushered in and fed with all the preemptory assurance this country's people were famous for.

_At least the food is good –_

"Hey! I know you!"

Mark looked up, and almost choked on his toast.

The little blond boy from his visit to the British Museum's mummy rooms had just barreled through the door as if all the demons of the netherworld were on his heels. Mark swallowed, wiped both hands against his napkin, and nodded.

"Alex, this is Mr. Fletcher," Evelyn interjected, intercepting the boy on his way to the table.

"I know," Alex chirruped, blue eyes curious. The small form bounced into a chair on the other side of the table. "I met him in the Museum yesterday. In the mummy room."

"We – ran into each other. There was another gentleman -" Mark managed, hiding his surprise.

"Evie, I'm starving, is there any -" Carnahan pulled up in surprise. "You!"

"Mr. Carnahan," Mark inclined his head. Underneath the table, fingers clamped on the chair's arms. For a moment, gold garments overlaid the man and his sister, throwing him into a time long past. Mark blinked; the images blurred into contemporary clothing. _Not again!_

"Jonathan, you know Mr. Fletcher?"

Carnahan dropped into a wicker chair across the table, reaching for the plate of eggs. "Ah, yes, Alex bounced off him in the Museum yesterday." Muffled by a mouthful of food, the next words came out slowly. "But I say, chap, what are you doing here?"

"You didn't hear about the accident?" Mark could feel a headache pushing at his temples. He didn't miss the glance that the older O'Connells exchanged.

"My sister and Rick are always managing to get into some sort of scrape or another," Jonathan shrugged. Rick snorted, but his face was white.

The little boy looked alarmed. "Accident?"

Evelyn stepped in. "It's nothing serious, sweetheart. There was a little trouble reconstructing the Temple of Perneb yesterday. Some of the ropes were not strong enough to take the weight of the stone blocks, and broke. Mr. Fletcher was passing by, and pushed me out of the way." The little boy was now almost in her lap, arms wrapped fiercely around her waist. "I'm quite alright, Alex." It barely reached Mark's ears.

_I doubt it._ He'd had enough encounters with death to know it was never easily brushed off.

"Well what's he doing here?"

Jonathan's manner was tactlessly forthright. _Rahotep,_ was Meren's first thought. _No!_ He was Mark, not Meren. But the Englishman did resemble the Prince he had known in his former lifetime, in personality if not body. Whereas Evelyn . . . He had to fight the urge to bow obeisance to the Great Royal Wife, whenever he saw her. Nefertiri's beauty had been famed throughout the Two Lands, and not without reason.

Fingers gripped a cool glass of juice, and he sipped, listening with half an ear to her explanations to her worried brother and son. _She didn't tell them before?_ Neither of the O'Connells had, he noted. And couldn't help but wonder why.

_Fool,_ he berated himself. _How often did you tell your children when you were in danger?_ They had known; Kysen most of all, but even Isis had not been immune to the evils that tracked him, from court to the intrigues he investigated.

Mark shook himself free of the Egyptian noble to find the table staring at him. _It's getting harder._ "I'm sorry?"

Evelyn smiled at him. "I was just curious as to what brings you to London, Mr. Fletcher."

"Business, I'm afraid." A small lie – but even he barely believed the truth.

"Oh?"

He detested small talk. Biting back a sigh, he used patience rarely tapped to smile. _I'm a guest. They want to know more about me. It's only natural._ "I'm the manager for a ranch in Montana – horses. The owners want to bring thoroughbreds into their stock. I've been sent to contact a breeder in England." Something he'd been meaning to do for awhile, and probably never would. Not now.

"Do you travel often?" Rick, curious around a mouthful of eggs.

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "Some." _England. Germany. _"Mostly Europe. This is the first time I've been to London, though."

"Have you been to Buckingham Palace?" Jonathan tossed him a grin.

"Tourists always go there to stare at the guards." Alex grinned too, little-boy mischief shining clear in blue eyes. "They always look straight ahead, no matter how many faces you make at them."

"Alex!"

"Evie, it was only the once," Rick interjected.

The woman snorted, and then gave Mark a tolerant glance. "Do you have family, Mr. Fletcher?"

It hurt. He buried it in his _ka_, feeling the unseen mask slip down once more. "No," was his answer, with a game smile. He missed her, so much. And as for the rest of them –

"Well," Jonathan snorted, "You're not missing much." And then the man fielded a punch from his sister and a stuck-out tongue from the little boy who leant around her to glare at his uncle.

Mark reached for the juice, politely ignoring the playful interaction. Tugged his sleeve down as it hiked up his left forearm. _Do you even know how lucky you are?_ From the expression on Rick O'Connell's face, he did.

------------------------

_Jonathan_

"Do you have a phone where I might call a taxi?" The man's – Fletcher's – voice cut calmly through the racket. Evie's glare dissipated, and Jon took the opportunity to stick his tongue back out at his nephew. _Better hope Evie never finds out we were _all_ at the palace._ It had been amazing, really, that his brother-in-law had lived just outside London for almost ten years and never been there.

Rick pushed his plate aside, rising stiffly. "Right over here. You have someplace you need to be?"

"You could say that." The other man's face was blank, and Jon frowned. _That's really odd._ Well, it probably wasn't important. Some people were like that; dull as sticks, too. _Would it kill him to smile?_

And then it happened again.

Jonathan blinked – but his sister was still wearing the linen shift, her hair straight and black and beaded with gold. _Court wig._ Their kitchen had disappeared, memory that he knew _wasn't his_ substituting an ancient room. Plastered walls were white, paint in the shape of people and boats and ducks along the Nile. Ra's rays were hot, soothing to him as he stood in the chill temple.

"Jonathan. Jon." Gray eyes stared worriedly into his. _Evie._ "Are you all right?"

_I'm losing my mind –_ A memory that, thank _God_, was his, saved him.

"_You haven't exactly been yourself lately, with all these dreams and visions -" Rick waved a hand by the side of his head. _

"_They're memories from my previous life. Honestly, I'm not losing my mind!"_

"Yeah," he shuddered.

Fingers tightened on cool cotton as Evie pressed his shoulder. "Are you certain?"

Their guest hadn't noticed; for that, Jonathan was thankful. "Talk to you later," he whispered. Fletcher was gathering his things to leave; the taxi was visible far down the drive. Chill sweat broke out on his skin. _How long was I trapped in that memory?_ The trouble was, it only _felt_ like a second . . .

Jonathan frowned, hanging back as Rick and Evie said goodbye at the door. He had the vaguest feeling that he _knew_ the man from somewhere else. If he could just put his finger on it . . .

_Ah, well. It'll come to me._

* * *

**A/N2:** While I would not post this generally without having the rest finished, I really don't like my work for the second chapter, and I'm just looking for a bit of feedback, 'cause I want to scrap it and start over. Questions, random plot musings, constructive criticisms all welcome, please! 


	2. Part 2

--------_August 25, 1933_---------

_3:39 PM_

Nestled with wet brick crowding on one side and rubbish bins on the other, he kept his head low. Field glasses peered over the edge of an empty fruit crate, jagged wood perilously close to his face.

Nothing.

_Ten minutes._

Not even a quarter of an hour had passed since a man with a red umbrella had departed the museum and hailed a cab.

_Signal: Target preparing for departure._

It was reasonable that there might have been a delay. Curators were busy people, with many sudden demands on their time. But no man in a deep blue jacket had leant against one of the pillars and lit a cigar, settling in for a smoke and a wait.

The only people in the circular curve before the entrance to the British Museum were three families with assorted whining children, and six stray individuals. One of the children shouted something, loudly, and tugged at the hand of her mother. The woman spoke sharply, and the girl started to cry.

Well-hidden in the shadows, the watcher's lip curled. _Despicable little creatures._

A tall, dark man was the next to exit the Museum and join those hailing cabs; the watcher didn't recognize him, but that meant nothing. No signal was given. His attention turned toward the building once more.

And as a solitary female shape left the shelter of tall white pillars, coat and curls swinging back from the swiftly moving form, he smiled.

-----------------

It was a small sign which caught his eye, but dread coiled serpent-like about his heart. ' _. . . the boy-king, Tutankhamun . . .'_

Smoky museum lighting seemed suddenly too bright, augmented by sunshine blaring through large windows. He'd come back because he needed to know, and it was worth the risk of running into the curator or her family again.

_Why would they call him that? 'Boy-king'?_ Unless . . . Mark moved further, fist clenched to deny the words protected by a thick pane of glass. Tutankhamun, boy-king who had died between the ages of seventeen and nineteen, as determined from an examination of the bones.

_How do you mourn someone three thousand years dead?_ Shaky legs brought him to a bench and refused to go further. Pain filled his _ka_ –

_I don't remember!_

'**_Succeeded by the vizier Ay, who reigned for four years before his own death, and was followed by the General Horemheb. This is astonishing simply because Horemheb was born a commoner; yet by marrying into the royal family, he became pharaoh.'_**

Something inside twisted painfully. Meren reached for it when Mark could not, and the spirit of the ancient Egyptian noble dropped it into a black diorite sarcophagus, slamming the lid down tight. _Later. Think on it later._

He had made his way through most of the Egyptian exhibit in the last four days since his initial encounter with the O'Connell family. _Did I really expect to find anything?_ For all the spottiness of the archaeological record, Meren had been the Eyes and Ears of Pharoah – and invisible within the guise of a great noble. That any traces of his existence might have braved three thousand years of desert . . .

_Not impossible. Just very, very unlikely. _

He needed to find out more.

He needed to _know._

And the only way was to see for himself. _The Two Lands._

-----------------

"Mr. Fletcher?"

The slightly-familiar silhouette turned from hailing a cab outside the Museum, revealing a face she knew. "Mrs. O'Connell. How are you?"

"I'm quite well, thanks to you." Evelyn smiled, noting the absence of white bandages. "And you?"

"Recovered." A brief curve of lips.

"I hadn't thought you'd still be in the city." She searched for something more to say, pulling the woolen edges of her coat tight against a breeze still chilled from the morning's drizzle. _Hadn't thought at all._ Guilt swamped her; for all this man had saved her life, she'd forgotten him in the haze of living it. New to her position, and what with the house in shambles and her family –

That was no excuse, and she shouldn't pretend it was. Evie's mind caught on what little she knew of the man, and ran with it, one hand going to frizzed hair. _So humid in the summer._ "How has your business gone?"

Fletcher's voice was neutral, emotionless. "I've finished everything that I needed to in London."

"Satisfactorily, I hope?" Evie spared a glance for darkening skies. _I wish I was home._

A gentile shrug. "As well as could be expected."

_Somehow, that doesn't sound like a 'yes'._ "And how much longer will you be in the city?"

That netted her an inscrutable glance. "Not very long, I'm afraid. Perhaps two days. I'll be busy wrapping up several loose ends before I leave."

Half-formed plans of inviting him to dinner with her family dissolved. "Oh." An approaching cab lurch to a stop almost on top of their toes, removing the need for her to say anything more. Evie hid her sigh of relief. _I don't think he likes people very much._ Fletcher's every word was formal, polite, without warmth or emotion. _Not like Rick at all. _She infinitely preferred her husband's open involvement in the world to this man's detached civility.

Fletcher opened one yellow door, then paused. "It was nice to speak with you again, Mrs. O'Connell. I hope I didn't delay you any -"

Evie waved a hand. "Oh, actually I'm waiting for a cab as well. Our car was . . ." _crushed by mummies_ ". . .involved in an accident."

Brown eyes blinked, and then Fletcher stepped back. "I'm sorry to hear that." One black-coated arm gestured inside the cab. "Here, take this one."

"I couldn't possibly -"

"I insist." Firm voice underscored by a glance at burgeoning clouds.

_They do look dark, don't they._ Tucking her coat tighter, she smiled and slipped inside. "Thank you. Safe travels, Mr. Fletcher."

"And you, ma'am."

Comfortable in the backseat of the cab, Evie glanced back as the driver pulled out into the crowded streets. Directions given, she finally let herself breathe out the tension that had built all day. _Calls from the director of the Louvre, and then the masons were having trouble measuring for the replacement block. . . never get the Tomb of Perneb complete before the deadline . . . _

The devil was in the details, firmly entrenched and laughing wickedly at her. Well, at least she wouldn't -

_SLAM!_

Pull air into lungs gasping for it. She blinked dizzily. _What -_ Leather and glass under opposing hands; Evie pushed herself out of the corner of the cab.

_Thunk!_

Another jolt sent her flying against the front seat. _Ow!_ A curse, sudden and shocked, drifted back from the driver.

Evie fumbled for words, for reason. "What's going on?"

_Going faster!_ All around her the engine's whine increased.

Beyond the smudged rear window she could make out sleek black lines, broken headlamps - And nothing of the driver's face, muffled behind thick red cloth.

A motor revved, frighteningly loud, metal and tires surging toward them. Evie bit back a scream, jostling against the front seats now as they were viciously rear-ended. _Oh, God! _

"Bloody hell!" The driver's knuckles shone white on the wheel, fear-sweat glistening on stubbled cheeks. "Drunken bast -"

Flashing bright _color-light-sound-_

Breath caught in her throat, words strangling over her tongue. "Watch out!"

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!_

Into and through the intersection, somehow unharmed through a scream of metal and glass that told her someone else had not been so fortunate. Evie felt blood drain from her face; the black car was still behind them.

Three meters . . . two . . .

A surge forward, drawing the cab away as the driver shouted. "Is 'ee still back there?"

"Yes! Don't slow down!" But this was _London,_ with stops and turns, pedestrians and back alleys - they couldn't - "There!"

Rubber screamed protest as they took the turn on two wheels, darting down the narrow side street before their pursuer could follow. Brick tore one rear-view mirror from the side of the car with a _crunch_.

_Oh, God, is he -_

Gone.

Both she and the driver were on the lookout; Evie strained her eyes past bumpers and gleaming paint for the entire ride, searching for black lines and broken headlamps. The driver's face had been hidden behind a mask - red robes, like the ones that had invaded her house and stolen her son -

_That was no drunken driver, no accident. _The black car had tried to run them off the road. Force them into an accident.

No. Not _them_.

_Me. But why on earth would -_

Crunch of gravel beneath the tires. Evie had been so determinedly focused on watching behind them, in all directions, that she hadn't seen Carnahan Manor looming through the windshield. _Home. Thank God._

-----------------

_4:20 PM_

A figure bundled into anonymity by coat and umbrella dropped a pink handkerchief in a puddle just down the steps from the British Museum's main entrance.

The man huddled behind refuse one alley away lowered field glasses to rest on crouched legs that had gone numb some time ago.

_Failure._

But they were by no means finished. _Set the next plan in motion._ Wars of attrition were best; easily won when played with enough force. Even better to wage the war silently, so that even when mistakes were made, they were not insurmountable.

Rising from his squat, the man smoothed down his expensive coat, moving casually out from the alley and turning on wet cobblestones.

_Snick._

Umbrella unfurled to protect bald head against the wet wind, he headed carefully away from the British Museum. _One, two, three, four, five -_

On the twelfth step he stumbled, catching himself against the sill of a small pub's window, leather gloves streaking the white paint someone had been foolish enough to try to apply that morning. The marks of three fingers were left.

He didn't need sunlight glinting off glass to know that the signal had been intercepted from the uppermost windows of the hotel across the street.

_And now, we attack._

The time for care, for delicacy of design, was fast slipping from them in the need to carry out their duty.

-----------------

_Mum's home!_

Running feet stumbled on the drive. Alex picked up his jaw. "Whoa! What happened to the car?"

Yellow paint had been scraped clean off in jagged horizontal lines across the right side of the taxi; its rear fender was crumpled like an old math assignment. Alex got a good look at his Mum's face and forgot about the cab.

"Mum?"

"It's all right, Alex," in the same voice that had said _'Alex, get back there!'_ when the priests had broken in - "Let me pay -"

The driver shook his head, tossing his hat in the passenger seat. "No charge, Ma'am. Not after a ride like that."

"Are you sure -"

"Evelyn!" Dad, slamming the door behind him and coming forward to grab her up. _Dad's here, he'll make it alright -_ But Dad couldn't make everything alright.

_Sand, and bright blood mixing sticky brown with the grit, still red on two sets of hands clutching Mum's stomach where she'd been stabbed - red, on the hands reaching to hug -_

Alex threw himself forward, away from grasping memories of the gold pyramid trying to drag him back into Ahm Shere. Wrapped arms around Mum's waist and squeezed tight. _Not letting go. Never._

Dad's voice like steel, like the way he'd always said _Imhoteph_, even when the mummy was just a story. "What happened?"

"Drunk driver," the cabbie slapped a shaking hand against the steering wheel. "Tried to pass and nearly shoved us off the road, he did. Tailgated and forced us through an intersection, rear-ended us a few times. Crazy son of a -" Alex saw the man's eyes catch on him, cabbie biting back whatever he'd been going to say. "No charge, sir, ma'am. I need to go report this to the company."

"Thank you." Mum, face white but still smiling. Alex thought it didn't look very happy.

"Hell, I'm just glad we both made it out in one piece. Good evening, ma'am, sir." Idling motor puttered into life as the cabbie stepped on the gas, circling to turn down the drive leading back toward the city.

Alex kept one hand firmly in Mum's all the way back into the house, frowning when he had to let go. "I need to take off my coat, Alex," Mum said quietly, but Dad stayed nearby too, hanging it up for her. All the way to the sitting room, where he sat as close as he could get when she dropped to the couch.

"What happened? From the beginning," Dad wrapped one arm around Mum, and she leant into him. Alex curled against her, squirming so he could see Mum's face.

"I left the Museum for the day," Mum sighed. Alex could feel little shakes in the fingers against his hair. "I was going to call a cab, since our car is. . . " _Wh- she's smiling?_

"I'm working on it." Dad smiled back, settling her against his chest. "Go on."

"Anyway. I went to hail a cab when I ran into Mr. Fletcher."

_Again?_

"Again?" Dad was as surprised as Alex felt.

Mum shifted a little against thick brown cushions. "I was surprised to see him there. Apparently he's almost finished with his business in the city, and is leaving in a few days. But he was calling a cab. We spoke for a few minutes before one pulled up, and he insisted I take it. It looked like rain." On her words, Alex peered toward the window. _It is wet out there._ No droplets falling, not yet, but it would be soon. "We were only ten minutes from the Museum when the car hit us. It was black, and had two broken headlamps. I couldn't read the plate - there was dirt on it."

"Convenient," Dad muttered. "Did you get a look at the driver?"

Alex didn't know that silences could be loud. This one was, full of words unspoken and a nervousness that pressed his knuckles white.

"I don't think it was a drunk driver," Mum said at last. "His face was covered behind the windshield."

"Covered?"

"With red robes."

_Red robes . . . _

Alex chanced a look at Dad. Gulped. _Looks like - like he's going to kill -_

"The Priests?"

Alex's foot itched; he rubbed it against thick brown cloth. Kept both eyes on his parents' faces. Something was going on, something he couldn't quite -

"I don't know. It might just have been a coincidence."

Quiet pleading, and . . . censure? "Evie."

One toe tickled, then two - irritated, Alex scraped up against the back of the couch.

"I know how you feel about coincidences, Rick, but -"

_Itches. Argh!_ Giving up, he reached down for the annoying tingle. Saw black, shiny chitin and delicate claws prickling gently against one socked foot. Froze. "M - Mum. . ."

"Coincidences? Evie, we thought that killing Imhoteph would end it, but if they're still after you -"

_Didn't hear._ Licked at dry lips; Alex felt the tiny creature shift, barbed tail glistening in low lamplight. _"Mum."_

"What is it, Alex - Rick!"

The next voice that spoke was very, very calm. "Alex. Don't move."

"Not moving," he promised. Couldn't tear blue eyes from the shifting creature.

The scorpion scuttled over his foot, moving up to perch on his ankle. _Get it off get it off!_

Shifting behind him; something moved in the corner of his eye. Tan pants, blue shirt. Wrist with a tattoo - _pyramid, and the eye, and the two kings, and everything. "Dad?"_

_"Stay still, just a minute, Alex." Moving slowly, the wrist disappeared. _

_Shiny black shifted. There was a whole minute in which Alex didn't breath. Moving! Slowly, the scorpion was crawling up the leg he'd curled against the couch. The wrist came back into the corner of his sight, knife open in Dad's hand. _

"Rick. . ."

"Alex, when I tell you, I want you to kick as hard and fast as you can, okay?"

_But what if it –_ Didn't matter, he wanted the scorpion _off _him, now. "Okay."

The knife was very steady; he could feel a hand on his arm. _Mum._ "On three, okay?"

"'Kay."

"One, two -"

Explosion of muscles and movement. Someone yanked Alex backward so hard they wrenched his arms – but blue eyes were fixed on the black blur flying through the air, hitting one wooden wall with a brittle _crunch._

"It's still moving!"

Silver arced across the living room, impaling the scorpion through its back. Tiny legs squirmed and scrabbled against the floor.

"Alex! Alex, look at me. Did it sting you?" Mum, right in front of his eyes with panic all over her face.

He looked for the first time at his leg – Dad had his foot in both hands, was turning leg and knee and running fingers over the skin, searching for a puncture. Adrenaline trailed away enough for him to feel his body again, and Alex slumped into the arms holding him. "No. I'm okay, really."

And he lost himself in the embrace around him, holding just as fiercely tight.

-----------------

_My god. Alex. It could have killed him! _"That was no accident."

His beloved Evie was shivering, holding their son close. They'd almost lost him, not just to Imhoteph and the mad priest's quest to take over the world, but to the bracelet that had led them to a nightmare that had stolen Evie from him. . . And now _this._

Anger, hot and thick and metallic against his tongue. _I'm going to find whoever did this. And then I'm going to kill him._

"No," Evie's voice cut through his raging hate, making Rick blink. It took a moment before he realized she was agreeing with him. "It wasn't."

Scorpions couldn't survive long outside their desert habitat. It had to have been planted in the Carnahan Manor, within the last few days. _First the Museum, then the car, now this –_

Whoever had done this hadn't cared _who_ the scorpion might sting, just that it stood a chance of hurting – killing – someone. And despite the black claws that had been crawling up his son's leg, Rick didn't think Alex was their target. _The block at the Museum would have crushed her, except for Fletcher. Then the cab –_

Only Evie had said she'd spoken with Fletcher, that he'd _put her in the cab_, right before she'd nearly been run off the road. And he'd been here, in their home, not five days past.

_I don't believe in coincidences._ But why?

Imhoteph. It had to be.

"Rick?" A gentle hand on his arm, gray eyes fixed concernedly on his face. He gave the fingers a soft squeeze, and pushed past the darkness in his thoughts to find a smile for her. Not hard, not when it was for Evie. _I almost lost –_

"You said that the man in the car that tried to run you off the road, that he was wearing red robes?"

"Yes," gray eyes understood him perfectly. "You think it's Imhoteph's priests."

"He wanted to kill you," Rick kept his voice quiet, but Alex still flinched, uncharacteristically burrowing closer to his mother. "You said the spell, yes, but I was the one who put a sword through him ten years ago. And still, he was determined to kill _you_, even before me." Rick and the ancient priest had hated one another, but for some reason the man had seen his wife, Evie, as the greater threat. Gone for her first, when he was at his strongest and when he had the element of surprise on his side.

"I – I remember him," she offered, and Rick knew Evie wasn't talking about their first encounter with the mummy. _Reincarnated princess. . . _

"But he's _dead_," Alex pointed out. Rick shouldn't have been surprised to hear a little of the cold satisfaction he felt echoed in his son's voice, but it still took him back.

"Not all of his priests are." And for some reason, they were still after Evie. Three attempts that they knew of, in the last week. Two of them today. _They're not going to stop._ _Not until we know why, and can figure out how to stop them._

They wouldn't get the time to do that if they were dead.

Threat assessment. These people were out for blood – and if Fletcher was any example, they didn't care about getting close to their victims to do it. It took a special type of killer to get intimate with the victim before the strike – he'd known a man or two like that in the Legion. _The most dangerous kind._

"You think they'll try again."

"Scorpions aren't native to England," Rick pointed out, getting to his feet to check that the crawling creature had finally died. "This isn't as subtle as an accident, like at the Museum, or with the cab. They want you dead, Evie, and they don't care who gets in their way. I'm not going to let them get another shot at us." Pulled her up, and close, burying his nose in curls that bore the faintest trace of aloe and roses.

"What are we going to do?" Evie's voice, clear as she tucked the side of her face against his neck. "They're watching us. They must be."

Tension coiled every muscle. _She's right._ "We're going to leave," he replied, smoothing one hand over his son's cap of thick blond strands. "I want you and Alex to pack, right now. Enough for two weeks, at least, and then we'll see what happens. Be as quick as you can, with as few bags as you can manage. Let me deal with Jonathan."

"He's coming?" Worried gray eyes, seeking reassurance.

Rick planted a kiss on her lips. "Of course." _They'd probably target him to lure us back if we didn't bring him._ But Evie and Alex didn't need to hear that. "Go on and pack, Alex, quickly. If you need me, shout."

Nodding, his son circled the dead scorpion still pinned to the floor, giving it a wide berth, before running for the stairs.

Evie waited for the sound of his footsteps to fade before she spoke again. Fear colored every word; Rick felt anger swell up again at the people who would force this terror on his family. "But – where can we go? They'll follow us if we try to run, and who knows what they'll do. . . Where can we go that we'll be safe?"

It was a good question, but Rick figured he just might have an answer. "I think, after this last disaster, Ardeth Bey owes us a favor or two, don't you?"

--------_September 2, 1933_---------

Heat sank through his skin, into his very bones; and the last of 1933's summer was being kind, even for late afternoon.

_Not like Montana. Not at all._

But it was familiar to Meren, if not to Mark – beyond the sweat and the scorching sun it was the smell of desert sand and the Nile. _Home._

Not Cairo – this city hadn't existed then as it did now. But the desert was eternal, and though the Nile might not be as clear and clean as he remembered, he knew its depths and dangers better than he knew the shape of its name.

Comfort enough to offset the grief of three thousand years' worth of change. Grief for the loss of friends he had once held dear, and now saw as blackened and desiccated corpses beyond thick glass.

He couldn't look for long.

It had been the same at the Louvre, and in Rome. Mark had taken the land route to Italy before crossing the Mediterranean by ship to the Delta and into Lower Egypt. But his time had been spent for nothing – there had been no clues for him there.

The only one he had, now, was in a map noting the location of the Pharaoh Tutankhamen's tomb. Memory rose up, and this time, he let it.

_Pacing. Eyes on the horizon, mind turning in deep thought._

_"You will have to choose a location for your House of Eternity eventually," Kysen pointed out. _

_Meren grimaced at his son. "Yes. And my enemies will be on it faster than the tomb robbers." There were those among the priesthood of Amun who hated him enough to despoil tomb and body, destroying the resting place of his _ka_, as soon as he was interred. _

_And he was too worried that he would face the Hall of Judgment before solving this latest crime, and doing his best to protect Pharaoh, to pay much attention to the details of his own resting place. _

_"You know that Abu and I shall act with utmost discretion," Kysen said mildly. _

_He trusted his son and his aide more than any others living. That was not the point. "I know," Meren sighed, wishing that he could juggle. The rhythm of motion needed to keep the balls in the air was soothing, distracting. It helped him think._

He had, for a short time, thought he was losing his mind. The memories came to him as easily as any of the ones he labeled his own. But if nothing else, the Great War had showed him his breaking point. _And I've not reached it, not now. Not just from this._ Whatever the path he tread now, it was not the road to insanity.

Blinking, Meren turned away from the brilliantly colored caskets before him. The paint had faded with age, but was still bright. All around him glass glowed and reflected the sunlight streaming in from the Cairo Museum's high windows. The stone underfoot was worn by people and the grit of yellow sand, though both were conspicuously absent today.

Rectangular walls sought to contain 'artifacts' of a time Mark remembered living, half-familiarity putting ancient echoes over his sight at every turn. But it was what he was trying to avoid the most that thoroughly grasped his attention.

_So poorly cared for . . . _

He couldn't pin down the line where Mark ended and Meren began; he was starting to suspect there wasn't one. But both spirits inside his flesh felt horror thrill every nerve.

The mummies looked hard-used, pried from their Houses of Eternity and the safety of spells meant to guide and protect them in the netherworld. The _ka_s seemed battered. _Tomb robbers. And they call themselves scholars._

The hatred was hot, and surprised him for only a moment.

_Denied the peace of the afterlife, dragged from tombs and temples where offerings to the _ba_ are made. To lie here, and be sent across the world, out of the Two Lands, just so the curious may stare._

And he _knew them._

Fury left him trembling, and he unclenched his fists, reaching to rest fingertips on a dagger at his waist, the cool metal a balm for his temper. But seeking fingers touched only warm cloth.

There was a sign before him. Mark read.

_'- not yet discovered the bodies of Ay or Horemheb, though scholars know -'_

And he rejoiced to know that some of his friends had been left undisturbed. There was little more information this museum could give him.

But Mark was here, in Egypt, at last. _I have time. All the time I need._ What he really needed was to walk again in the places where his feet had trod three thousand years ago. He had most of Meren's memories – but not all. And it was those he was missing which held the key to the questions rattling in his brain.

He was at the door when the corridor brought to him the echo of a woman's voice.

"- think we can contact him from here?"

Mark's brow wrinkled. _I know that –_

"Probably. Ardeth keeps a connection to -"

Understanding made him blink. _The O'Connells?_

That was all the warning he got; Rick O'Connell rounded the corner and astonishment flashed to anger in icy blue eyes.

Saw the punch coming – no time to duck –

_Pain!_

Darkness swallowed him whole.

-----------------

Jonathan gaped. "Are you _mad?_"

"Yes," Rick leant over the unconscious man, lifting an eyelid to make sure he was out.

_Damn literal Americans._ Jonathan saw a bruise forming on Fletcher's face, and winced. All the anger that had been stewing in Rick since his brother-in-law had tracked him down and tersely told him to pack for Egypt had been loaded into that blow.

Through days of careful traveling, taking the roundabout route, doubling back, laying false trails . . . Jonathan shook his head. _Glad it wasn't me!_

Evie was staring, puzzled, at her husband; Alex's mouth was gaping. "What'jda do that for, Dad?"

"I don't believe in coincidence."

_Yes. Right. What?_ Jon dropped the bags, grateful for the chance to rest. Looked like they might be here for a short stretch.

Evie was the only one who apparently understood, comprehension sweeping over her face. "You can't possibly think -"

"I do." Rick was searching the man's pockets, patting down legs and arms. _Looking for . . . what? Knife? Gun?_

"Rick, he saved my life!"

Rick was sitting the man up now, arranging limp limbs. "He turned up at the Museum twice, he put you _in_ the cab just before it had an accident. He was in our house."

_You mean he might have –_

Jonathan had seen the scorpion, curled like a dead insect around the knife that had impaled it against the floor. _Snakes, scorpions . . . really, haven't these people had enough with the wildlife? Ridiculous!_

Stubbornness set his baby sister's chin. "I don't believe that."

"I'm not going to take the chance." One pull, and the unconscious form was slung over Rick's shoulder.

"What – what are you doing?" Jonathan scrambled for the bags, trying to slow his brother-in-law as the man headed for the curator's office.

"He's coming with us." No room for argument against that inflexible tone. _Lovely. Just . . . fabulous._

-----------------

_I shouldn't be this happy._

Evie knew it didn't make sense. There were people hunting them, trying to kill her, Rick had just knocked out a man he thought might be targeting her, and Jonathan was grumbling behind her, struggling with the three bags they'd brought.

But her son was alive and well, bouncing at her side with his rucksack on his back.

_And we're back._

Egypt was in her blood, in her brother's and her son's. It had always meant freedom.

_Even though Rick hates Cairo._ Her husband's American parents had died here, and he'd been tossed into an orphanage and mostly ignored at the age of six, until two years later when an old Medjai woman had tattooed a symbol of destiny on his right wrist. _I wish he could talk about it._

But still.

Evie stepped carefully on the Persian carpet, following Rick through the open door to the curator's office. And when the man's shocked stare melted upon seeing them properly, she knew Rick was right.

"What is wrong?"

Cultured words, English with England rather than America behind it.

"Can you get word to Ardeth?" Her husband dumped Fletcher on a bench against the wall without much regard for gentleness. _I don't know what to think._ Rick's instincts were never wrong. _But – he saved me, making sure he was hurt, to elicit an invitation to our house so he could plant a scorpion in the Manor?_ Not outside the realm of possibility, but thin.

Not an eyelid flickered on the Curator's face. Evie didn't know him; new as she was to her position, she hadn't yet had a chance to contact the Cairo Museum. "I can. Tell me why I should." He was a small man, unremarkable in face or feature, and thinly Arab. No tattoos anywhere in sight. _But they're tribal marks of warriors. _Ardeth wouldn't be so foolish as to send his people with inked symbols written into their very skin identifying them.

Rick had pulled out Fletcher's wallet. He looked up from leather folds for a moment, and said quietly, "We're being hunted by Imhoteph's priests."

"Revenge?" The curator's voice was neutral, even as one hand reached for the phone.

"We don't know why." She found her voice, urging Alex to sit in a chair, keeping him from staring at the unconscious Fletcher.

"And who is this?"

"He gave us the name Mark Fletcher," Evie offered.

"American businessman," Jonathan grunted, finally making it inside the office door and dumping the bags with a_ bang_ that made Alex jump.

"Shut the door, Mr. Carnahan, if you please?"

Evie couldn't help but smile at the dismay on her brother's face when he realized that he'd have to shift all three suitcases out of the way before complying. Sub-vocal grousing followed. "Unbelievable."

"Huh. Look at this," Rick proffered two small photos from the inside of the wallet. One was of a family, mother and father and three children, two boys and a girl who looked midway between them in age. She didn't recognize any of them at a glance. The second photo she could clearly see Fletcher, with a lovely woman wearing a white wedding dress. _His wife?_

"Not much else in here." Rick held up a driver's license. "This. And some money."

Warm leather hit Evie's fingers. _I guess we shouldn't be that surprised. _She started to put everything back.

"You are sure they are hunting you?"

Rick's voice was blunt, insistent as he answered. Evie tried to work the license back into one of the slender folds; it wouldn't go. Frowning, she pushed it in with the money, tucking the whole thing into one pocket for now.

"Very well," the small man agreed. "I will contact Ardeth. Someone will be sent to lead you to him." _Click._

"I don't think so."

Evie glanced up. _Oh, my -_"Rick!"

The pistol in her husband's hands never wavered. "I'm a little thin on trust at the moment." The flash of white teeth had nothing in common with a smile. "So you're going to bring us to Ardeth. Right now." She expected the Curator to protest; so, apparently, did Rick. _After all, I know how busy he must be. _She wasn't the only one surprised when he merely inclined his head, murmuring, "Very well."

Movement.

"Uh, Dad," Alex's voice raised, pointing to the stirring Fletcher. "He's waking up."

"Hold this. Keep it on him. You," her husband handed the gun to a shocked Jonathan. "If he moves, reaches for the phone, whatever, shoot him somewhere painful. Don't kill him."

"Sorry about this, old chap," Evie's brother nodded to the curator with a nervous smile. For all he was a crack shot with rifles, Jonathan hated guns. He'd only just avoided being sent to fight in the Great War by being out of the country at the time.

"Rise and shine." Rick had Fletcher by the collar, and was pinning him against the wall.

Brown eyes glared back at him. "What the hell's going on?"

"We were hoping you could tell us that." Until she heard the chill in her own voice, Evie didn't know she'd been angry. _They were trying to kill me. Alex – my baby, they almost –_

Dark eyes went to her – and slid out of focus for a moment. Evie clamped down on her nerves. Quick as a blink, Fletcher's gaze was lucid again, moving over the room. _Taking in everything – Alex, Jonathan, the Curator . . ._

"You will get no help from me," snapped the Curator. Rick didn't move; Evie glanced back. The little man was making no moves to get out of Jonathan's sights, even though her brother's attention was on the opposite side of the room. _Jonathan! _At her hard glare, her brother guiltily turned his gaze back to the Curator.

"No, I didn't think so." Impossible to tell what he was really thinking.

Her husband's knuckles clenched white about Fletcher's collar, pressing him tighter against the wall. Rick leaned even closer. _"Why are you after us?"_

That got them a moment of shock, wiped quickly away. _But I saw it. He didn't think we knew –_ "I don't know what you're talking about."

_That_ was a lie.

"Your people tried to kill my wife." She'd never heard her husband's voice so dark. "I want to know _why._"

Suddenly, Fletcher moved.

Too far away to do anything but shout, Evie saw his knee come up hard, slamming into Rick's chest. One arm slid across in a move too fast to see – the next thing she knew Fletcher was free, darting toward the door –

"Stop!" Jonathan, gun trembling in his grip. "I'll shoot!"

Fletcher froze barely a yard from the door. Both hands came up, and he turned slowly.

Carpet barked her knees as she dropped to Rick's side; curled on the floor, her husband coughed, wheezing for air. _He hit him in the solar plexus._

Tears blinked from the blue eyes staring up at her. Face red, Rick gulped a breath and rolled to his knees. Sudden stillness next to her made Evie look up – and fear snatched her heart.

_Alex._

Blue eyes wide, he was perched in the chair that she'd pressed him into, hands on the arms and fingers white with pressure against tan leather. _Between_ Jonathan and Fletcher.

The entire room waited for something to happen.

Evie watched Fletcher. Gun or not, if he went for Alex –

Unfathomable eyes scanned them all, taking in tensed muscles and frantic faces. And then he took two steps to the side, _away_ from her son, leaving Jonathan a clear line of sight on him.

_He – why did he –_

Rick was at Fletcher's side in an instant, one fist slamming into the man's stomach to leave him bent and gasping. Evie didn't care, grabbing up the small blond form that was still, for all his bravado, shaking in fear. "Alex? Are you alright?"

One gulping, shuddery sigh. "Yeah."

"Jonathan, give me your belt."

"What?"

At the shocked sputtering, Evie glanced up. Rick had Fletcher once more pinned and motionless. Blue eyes rolled. "I need to tie him up, Jonathan."

"Oh, right, belt, got it, what about . . ."

Evie watched her husband take the gun, leaving nothing to chance. Kept her son safe in her arms.

"You'll never get me out of here without someone noticing," the captive pointed out, voice still infuriatingly calm. _Arrogant,_ Evie decided.

It was the Curator who responded, with a deliberate glance at darkening windows. "Under the cover of night, many things may be done that are not possible by day."

And it was almost night now.

Jonathan handed over his belt; Rick worked for a moment, then paused. "Evie."

"Yes?"

"What is this?" And her husband dragged Fletcher's left arm into the circle of light thrown by the lamp on the curator's desk. On the inside of the tanned wrist was a thick white scar, circular, with tiny rays ending in hands emitted from it.

_I – I know that!_ Not just from textbooks, but from _before._ "It's the Aten," Alex piped up before she could answer.

The Curator blinked down at her son, and Evie nodded. " He's right. The Aten was the Sun-Disk god introduced by the heretic pharaoh Akhenaten on the death of his father, Amunhoteph III. He tried to convert all of Egypt to monotheism to diminish the power of the priests of Amun."

"Imhoteph's priests?"

_But . . . what's the connection to Imhoteph? _"Yes, but they hated each other." Looking up, Evie was surprised to see that Fletcher's face was carefully turned away, not looking at the scar at all. _It's a brand,_ she realized, noting the clearly defined scar tissue. One that had been cared for, to heal cleanly and leave the Aten neatly described in white on his skin.

Rick followed her eyes up, and caught the man's posture. "You're from a rival priesthood, then, trying to beat out the priests of Amun to kill my wife?!" He shook the still form. "Well?!"

No answer.

"We should go," the Curator broke quietly through the tense silence. "We have only a few hours, and you must be miles from here before morning."

Evie put a hand on Rick's arm; felt the deep breath shudder through him. A moment's work finished securing Fletcher's hands. Her husband nodded to the Curator. "Right."

-----------------

_Target moving._

The man who had been in an alley near the British Museum kept close to the shadows. Easier, in Cairo, to slink about the night without notice.

And there they were – boy, woman and guide, with – three men?

Curiosity made him linger. The husband and the brother, yes – but who was this third? The husband stood close, and the man walked with both hands clasped behind his back –

_Ah._ Tied. And there was the gun, almost invisible, pressing against his back.

The watcher took a good look at the face, and almost laughed.

_So they think they have caught one of ours, do they? Fools._ None of his people would be so careless.

_And even if they were, they wouldn't survive the mistake long enough to be of any use to the O'Connells._

The guide didn't matter; the watcher recognized the small Curator of the Cairo Museum. Whoever held the position was typically a Medjai, planted in the city. No reason to suppose Ardeth Bey had changed a tradition that worked.

The little man was unimportant. He would be dead soon enough anyway.

_He will not betray any information, of course._

But that hardly mattered – there was only one place the O'Connells would go.

_And they shall be right where we want them._

-----------------

"Ardeth."

Glancing up from the tiny papyrus before him, the leader of one of the twelve tribes of the Medjai motioned for the messenger to enter. "Yes?"

"Report from Fuad. The O'Connells need sanctuary. They are coming here."

Ardeth rose. _Please, let it not be –_ "Did he say why?"

Dark eyes, unaccustomedly solemn, met his. "O'Connell says it is not over. They are being hunted – by Imhoteph's priesthood."

_Our enemies._ "The priests of Amun."

"What else?"

"Only that they do not know how long they will need to remain. And – they bring a prisoner."

Two fingers rubbed at his chin. Ardeth considered. _That changes things._ Their chances now of success were higher, though making the man talk would be . . . difficult. Not impossible. "Good," Ardeth nodded. "Prepare a tent, and send a guide to meet them. When did they leave?"

"Yesterday night."

"Then we have two days," he murmured, dismissing the messenger. _Two days._

And the Medjai would be on their guard.


	3. Part 3

---------_September 5, 1933_--------

The sun was _hot._

Mark bent his head, wiping his face against the damp cotton of his shirtsleeve. He caught a glare from O'Connell, and studiously ignored Carnahan on his other side, staring pointedly between fuzzed ears.

He and the camel hadn't had more than the chance to blink at each other before he'd been shoved on it and they were crossing the sands outside the Nile's west bank, headed toward what had once been the Faiyum oasis. _Strange._ There had been no camels in Egypt until relatively recent times; neither the rancher nor the ancient noble had a proper idea of what to do with the creature.

Luckily, his wrists were bound, taking any decision out of his hands.

_Or not so lucky._

Mark didn't bother testing the ropes. He knew good knots when he saw them, and they were in the middle of the desert. _I have no water. Where, exactly, am I going to run?_

Still, he would give O'Connell credit for paying attention to his prisoner, even if the man didn't pay proper attention to his son. _His wife, yes._ The two of them were still very much in love, from the soft words and looks he could see, and the hardness in O'Connell's eyes when the other man looked at him.

Jealousy was an old ache, easily ignored. Mark closed his eyes a moment, breathing past old pain. _I miss you, Seanna._

_Bump._

_Wh-_

Another not-so-gentle nudge, and he blinked against blinding rays. Carnahan was holding out a canteen. _You're dehydrated._ Which would very well explain his sudden drop into melancholy.

Mark drank, carefully, no more than two swallows. The water was being rationed, and he knew that as a prisoner, he was last on the list of priorities. The previous day and night had shown him that. _They want me to get wherever we're going alive. But they don't particularly care what shape I'm in when we get there. _"Thank you."

At least with the Germans he'd known what to expect. POW's gave name, rank, serial number only; no troop movements, no communication codes, not even commanders' names. _No matter what._

"How much further, Rick?" She kept her voice low, but the heat had pulled every last scrap of energy from them all; Evelyn O'Connell was the first to speak in hours.

"By the end of the day we should reach Ardeth's camp, according to the curator." Rick slanted a glance toward the one man who looked completely at home on his mount's back.

The thin Arab turned back and nodded, squinting from the angle of the sun. "Three hours," he called.

Despite all he did to suppress it, adrenaline slammed through Mark's veins. _Three hours._ Until. . . _I wish I knew._ Even anticipating torture would be better than this . . . this not-knowing.

"Good," Carnahan sighed extravagantly. "I'm bloody bored."

O'Connell rolled his eyes; the boy – Alex – giggled.

"Language, Jonathan." But it was a halfhearted protest; even Mark could hear it.

"My dear, sweet, baby sister -"

And they were squabbling again, much as Iduna and Nicholas had during all their shared childhood. Mark's adopted siblings still fought tremendously when the mood struck. _At least, when Nick's sober. _If not the same, this was still familiar, and he could ignore it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he stared at O'Connell. _So lucky. And you don't even see it, do you?_

-----------------

Fletcher was staring at him again.

Nothing noticeable, but it was a steady gaze from the corner of dark eyes that flicked away whenever he shot a glare at the captive. It had been going on since early morning, and they had been riding camel-back for over six hours now.

_Where does he – _Aggravation burned hot in his veins; he clipped the thought short. Rick tightened the grip on his camel's rope. "How much longer?" Then bit his lip.

"Now I know where Alex gets it," Evie murmured, pixie-smile hovering around the corners of full lips.

Their guide – whose name was Fuad – saved him from having to answer. "We should arrive in the camp within minutes, O'Connell."

_That close?_ Rick perked up, saw Alex, Evie, and Jonathan do the same. Fletcher tensed. _Damn right._ Now, they could get to the bottom of this. Ardeth had more sources, more connections and more information about Imhoteph's priesthood than he could ever hope to gather in the short timeframe he had.

And time was short – danger rumbled, deep in his gut.

"They are expecting us," Fuad commented, raising his voice to carry across the sands.

Blue eyes shifted; Rick saw a tiny flash of blackness against the brightness of the desert, only two dunes distant. _Scouts._ On foot, unlike the array of men he remembered seeing, lined up in rows and on horseback, atop a mountain – over ten years ago now. _Medjai._

Guiding his camel along a dune, Rick saw Alex craning his neck.

"What's that?"

Trees, stunning green against the creamy brilliance of sand. Rick felt his heart give a strong kick against his ribs; he swallowed. _Not again._ "It's an oasis."

"Oh, my," Evie breathed, gray eyes wide.

"Here we go again," Jonathan muttered.

Fletcher was silent.

"It's _huge!_" Alex wore his mother's expression of amazed wonder.

"It's the Faiyum," Evie continued. "But it's supposed to be lost – swallowed by the desert, a thousand years ago or more!"

"It was not," Fuad commented serenely. A tiny smirk flashed about his face, then disappeared.

Rick shot the man an assessing glance. _That explains a lot._ Ardeth had mustered one hundred thousand Medjai, or more, to aid in the battle against the Scorpion King. He'd seen the tracks. _That many people, living in the desert?_ They would need extensive water and food sources to support them, even when broken into smaller tribes.

_And this oasis looks large enough to do so._

After all, the desert bred a conservative, careful people. Extravagance and waste would kill them; but quick minds and an ever-ready eye for water meant they could thrive, prosper even.

Rick raised his voice over Alex's excited chatter, Evie's rejoinders and Jonathan's astonished mutterings. "Where's Ardeth?"

Instead of answering, Fuad clicked his tongue and tugged the camel's reins, carefully sidling through slipping sand. Fletcher's camel, bound to their guide's, followed.

So did Rick.

-----------------

_Wow!_

It wasn't anything like Ahm Shere. Instead of thick undergrowth and shadows with eyes, there were tents scattered in clumps beneath waving palms.

Alex kicked his camel up toward their guide's. The sudden breeze from the animal's faster movement felt good against the skin of his face and neck. "Fuad! Fuad! How many people live here?" _This is so neat!_

A low laugh broke from the thin Arab. "Many, young O'Connell. The twelve tribes of the Medjai are scattered all across the deserts of Egypt, but this is the place we all call home."

"Neat!" Looking around, he could see women, walking and talking with baskets and little kids running everywhere. Older kids, too, with animals and even a gaggle of geese parading between two tents. "Where are we going?"

"To the center of the Faiyum," Fuad said smoothly. "Ardeth Bay waits for you there."

"Alex!"

Pulling on the reigns, he managed to stop his camel. _Whew. That's hard._ It didn't help that his legs weren't long enough to reach the stirrups. Mum came up, worry on her face. "Don't go racing off like that, Alex."

"Stay close," Dad added. "You don't want to run anyone down by accident." A teasing twinkle gleamed in bright blue for just a second, and Alex grinned back.

But then he caught the nervous look his mom was giving Fletcher, whose camel had passed by Alex's as he'd waited for Mum and Dad to catch up. _They don't want me near him._ He'd almost forgotten _why_ they were here.

"He's tied up," Alex objected. "I couldn't do anything when Imhoteph had me tied to my camel."

Dad sat up straight; a hand flew to Mum's mouth.

Alex frowned. _What?_

"He's bigger than you, Alex," Dad said slowly. _He's angry._ Alex blinked. _Really angry._ "And he's older and stronger too. I just don't want to take any chances."

"Okay," he agreed, a little uncertain.

"Ah, there he is!" A fourth camel nudged into their little circle, but Uncle Jon wasn't looking at any of them. Alex followed the pointing arm, and saw the dark-robed Medjai who had shown up at their house the night the priests had kidnapped Mum.

Fuad, a few camel-lengths closer, slipped from his saddle to take his animal, and the one carrying their prisoner, by the halter.

"C'mon, Alex." Dad had jumped down, and was reaching up for him.

Feet hitting tough grass, Alex staggered a little. _Whoa._

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Dad smiled, a hand ruffling through his hair.

"Daaad!"

Dad just chuckled. So, maybe he didn't mind as much. This once. Mum and Uncle Jon were down too, leading their camels over to them.

"O'Connell."

_Whoa!_ Alex jumped, fingers clenching Dad's. Dark, familiar eyes met his when he whipped around, half-falling behind his Dad. Ardeth. Alex swallowed, heaving a sigh. _On the sand and the grass, you really can't hear anyone coming up behind you._

Mum stepped forward first, with a smile. "Ardeth."

Then Dad, raising his fingers in some sort of salute, before exchanging a handshake with the Medjai. "And Alex."

"Hi," he offered.

From the side, Uncle Jon waved awkwardly.

_Heee!_

At his mother's warning glance, Alex bit back the giggle. Uncle Jon winked at him.

Two men came over; a few fluid words from Ardeth had them pulling Fletcher off his camel. With a few more instructions, the men and Fuad disappeared with the prisoner. Alex looked up in time to see _something_, grim and purposeful, echo between Dad and Ardeth; then the warrior smiled. "We will have evening meal in a short while. For now, share our water and be welcome."

_Neat! _Dad and Mum started to follow as Ardeth turned toward a nearby fall of canvas. _The camels! _"Wait – but what about -" Twisting, Alex looked back to see several women coaxing the animals away in the other direction.

"Don't worry, Alex," Mum soothed. "They'll be taken care of."

"Fleabags," Uncle Jon grumbled.

"We prefer horses to camels," Ardeth commented, leading them deeper into the shade of the palms, behind the tent.

_Horses? Wow! I bet they're Arabians, the fastest horses anywhere! _Excitement bubbled over. "Really? Neat! Can I see them? Where do -"

"Alex," Dad warned. _Oops._

"Of course," Ardeth laughed. _Huh. He has a nice laugh._ He'd never heard it before. But he didn't know the Medjai really. _Not like Mum and Dad do._ More fluid words that fascinated him, called out across grass and between breeze-rustled leaves. _I bet I could learn that. _

A man emerged from behind tough white cloth, and gave a shout. A boy, just about Alex's age, ran around from the other side of the tent. The two joined them, pulling more of the language from Ardeth, though Alex caught their names in the midst of it.

"Go with Hakim," Ardeth said to him. "He will take you to see our horses. His son, Aali, speaks English and needs to practice. Mind him," dark eyes locked on his seriously. "And do not stray from the camp. The desert is not forgiving."

Alex gulped. _Jeez._

"I don't know -" Dad's hand on his shoulder kept Alex from moving.

Mum was standing very close to them both. "Are you sure it will be safe?"

Alex peered up at her, and started to scowl. _We're in the middle of the Medjai camp, Mum!_ But he knew better than to say it.

Dark eyes looked over all of them. "It will be all right," Ardeth said softly. "I trust Hakim."

Wouldn't hurt to try now. Alex turned a bit, still looking up. "Please, Mum?"

-----------------

"It's better that he's not here for this, anyway," Rick's lips brushed her ear, hands warm on her shoulders. Evie leant back into his embrace, still watching the sun glint off blond strands as Alex disappeared between green leaves. The older man's form remained in view for a short while longer.

"Hakim is one of our tribe's greatest warriors," Ardeth's voice carried only as far as their ears. The Medjai ducked underneath a canvas flap, inviting them beneath its shade. "I would trust him with the lives of my children."

_What?_

Pausing on the threshold, Evie blinked and felt her husband's surprise. "I didn't know you had a family, Ardeth."

"Three sons and two daughters," was the calm pronouncement. "They are elsewhere."

_And that's all we'll hear about that,_ Evie knew. The Faiyum seemed to be the secret it was safe for the outside world to discover – naturally, there would be other hideaways used by the nomadic warrior-tribes of Medjai.

"I have received reports from Fuad," Ardeth broke the silence. "Evelyn. There have been attempts on your life?"

"Three," and she told him about the stone block, the cab, and the scorpion.

"We decided to go to ground, somewhere they hopefully couldn't find us. We tried Cairo," Rick continued. His fingers wrapped around hers, squeezed tight. "But then Fletcher showed up again."

"In the Museum," Ardeth nodded, cushions giving way as he invited them to sit. "You believe him to be an assassin?"

Evelyn felt her husband freeze at the word. "Maybe," he said softly.

She couldn't help but look in the direction Fletcher had been dragged off. "What are you going to do to him?"

"He knows things we need to know, Evie," Rick said softly.

Suspicion wound through her veins, followed by the swift shock of horror. "Rick. That better not mean what I think you're saying."

"Evie, sometimes there are certain ways that will give you information when others won't."

It wasn't often that demons from her husband's past in the Legion came back to haunt them, but Evie couldn't help herself. "That's barbaric."

"It is the most extreme measure we are able to take." Ardeth sipped from a clay vessel. "If we do not get the answers we seek from him in other ways, then we will move on to less pleasant means of questioning. Some men crumble at only the threat of pain."

She shuddered. "Still. Is that – really necessary?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you didn't believe this guy tried to kill you, Evie."

"I'm not convinced he did!" She burst to her feet, taking two steps away before turning. "Not entirely."

"Why?"

The question was neutral; faced with Ardeth's impassivity rather than Rick's restrained incredulity, Evie gathered her thoughts. "Because he pushed me out of the way of the falling block. He was going to take the cab I ended up in, but let me have it instead. He wasn't anywhere near when we – found – the scorpion in our house. It could just be coincidence. We can't prove that he's done anything!" _And just because he was there doesn't mean -_

"He was already in Cairo, in the _Museum,_ when we arrived. And what about the scar on his arm?" Rick demanded.

_I forgot about that._ "I don't know," she admitted, sinking back into grass-filled hide. A strong arm encircled her shoulders, and Evie sighed. _But . . . I trusted him._ And the feeling should have been one of betrayal – only it wasn't. "I still feel like there must be another explanation."

Ardeth cut into the silence. "Brand?"

Evie sipped at a ceramic cup full of cool water. _I didn't realize I was so thirsty._

"On his left inner wrist." Rick tapped his own.

"It's the Aten," she added. "Mark of the -"

"- heretic pharaoh," Ardeth finished with a frown. "That priesthood had died out by the time of the Pharaoh Horemheb."

"That's why I have such trouble believing this!" Evie sat up straighter. "That the Priesthood of Amun survived three thousand years beyond the collapse of the New Kingdom is extraordinary. But the Temple of Amun was the greatest and richest of all the priesthoods of Egypt, even those of Isis and Osiris. I just don't understand how followers of a heretic pharaoh who overturned the entire culture of Egypt, and whose efforts were erased as soon as he died, could have lasted until now!"

"It is a riddle, indeed," Ardeth murmured.

-----------------

_"Did you have any trouble with him?" _

It was cooler inside the mud-brick walls of one of their more permanent structures, giving relief from the heavy heat of the desert that penetrated even deeply into the Faiyum. Here, some of the night's chill could be captured for the hours when the sun beat down on them.

Baqir answered, never taking his eyes from the prisoner. _"No."_

Ardeth took in the sight of the man, tightly tied to one of the poles supporting the roof of grass and mud-plastered leaves. _"Any sign that he understood you?"_

_"None."_ Salil leant against the mud-brick wall.

_"Very well."_ Ardeth crouched in front of the man, locking eyes. _I know this face,_ he realized, with the sudden start of unexpected recognition. _How?_ "Your name is Mark Fletcher?"

The chin came up, brown eyes shuttered. The man said nothing.

_"Untie his left arm."_

Salil came forward; Ardeth caught the stiffening of the prisoner's body. _He's nervous, afraid. Good._ Baqir remained by the door, and Salil remained within reach. A trapped man would strike out, any way he could; there was little use in taking pointless chances.

Ardeth curled two fingers under the wrist; felt muscles tense under his grip. But he had little trouble turning the arm over to reveal the disc-shaped scar. _He resists, as if it is instinct, but does not fight us._ An intelligent foe was always the more dangerous.

His eyes skimmed scar-whitened flesh, and the sense of familiarity grew stronger. "When did you get this?"

_He's not going to say anything._

But Fletcher surprised him.

"Sixteen years ago." The voice rasped in their prisoner's throat; he coughed, once, tongue swiping at dry lips. The desert was kind to no one, not even her own.

_That long?_ It was old scar tissue, deep – Ardeth knew that marks like this never faded, only silvered with age. But . . . _sixteen years?_ "Who gave it to you?"

"No one you're thinking of," was the response.

Ardeth stepped back, trying to force the man to look up at him. Fletcher did, one eyebrow quirking in a way that made instinct twist inside him, insisting, _I know that expression._ But he could not recall _where_ he had seen Fletcher before. _Stay in control of the questioning. _"Who gave you that mark?"

Brown eyes unfocused; the prisoner's voice was flat. "I don't know."

_Impossible._

"You are a follower of the priesthood of Amun."

They both knew it wasn't true; but now that the man was speaking, Ardeth needed to know how he would react when he truly could defend himself against an accusation.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Words he had heard several times before, but it was unusual to hear such dullness – as if the prisoner knew they were just going through the formalities of questioning, before the _real_ interrogation began. _He will force us to hurt him; he will not break otherwise._

Or he was already broken.

Well. They would see.

Boots circled in the sand; Ardeth stopped directly behind Fletcher, crouched down low to breathe into the prisoner's ear. "You are alone, here. There is no one to help you."

The words were low, gravelly. "I know."

_Hmm._

Ardeth circled one last time. Back to the door, he studied Fletcher once more. _Neutral body language. No eye contact, no facial expression. Like a stela, carved into one of the great temples._ "Before we are done, you will tell me who sent you to kill Evelyn O'Connell."

The mask slipped, for just a moment, and he saw true astonishment before blankness slid over the prisoner's features. _Was he surprised because I know his mission? Or for some other reason?_

Time would tell.

Outside the adobe hut, Ardeth turned to Baqir. _"Give him no food, no water. Report to me every day at sunup and sundown with his condition."_ He met the shorter, stockier man's eyes seriously. _"The prisoner is our only source of information to the whereabouts of this new threat. He must not die, nor be permanently damaged."_

A swift nod answered him.

---------_September 10, 1933_--------

_Hmmm. Bloody hot, as usual. Wonder what Evie and Rick are up to?_ Canvas got in his way and almost tangled, but Jonathan wormed past it, staggering only a little. _One, two . . . _"Where's Alex gone off to, then?"

His sister looked up from a brown nest of cushions with a smile. "He and Aali are great friends. I couldn't pry them away from the horses for anything."

"Ah." Looking around, he gave a wave to Rick. His brother-in-law nodded, hands filled with knife and whetting stone. "So. What d'we know?"

Evie stood, making her way across a thick rug to several bowls of food perched on a low table. _Dates, figs, mmmm. _"Despite the dehydration, Ardeth hasn't found out anything important." Disgust colored her tone.

Jonathan settled against Evie's cushions, stretching out booted feet. "Y'mean they haven't given the bloke any water in days?"

Brown curls bounced in the negative.

Jonathan shuddered. _That's bloody awful._ "Did he say anything yet?"

"Nothing useful," Rick answered.

Jonathan blinked, settling deeper into the cushions. "Well, I don't suppose we could just -"

_Riiiiiiiiip_

"DOWN!"

"_Oh!_"

"I say -" His sister and Rick were a tangle of limbs on the rough ground-cover; deadly steel glinted in the tent's support pole, still trembling from the force of the throw. _Someone just tried to – _"Wh – what!"

Ardeth burst into the tent, black curls flying wild. "O'Connell!"

"It came from the north – that way – go!"

And the Medjai was gone, racing in the direction of Rick's outflung hand.

"That's it," Rick was pulling Evie up, holding her tight.

Jonathan stumbled away from the cushions, tripping as his foot met goose-feather stuffing rather than solid ground. "Evie!"

"I'm fine," she murmured, but then gray eyes shot wide. "Alex!"

_Oh my God._ Jonathan sucked in a breath, watching as sudden fear snapped his brother-in-law upright, an order on his lips. "I'll get him, stay with Jonathan!"

And in a swirl of canvas, Rick was gone. _Stay – stay here?_ Sitting ducks. But there was no way his sister would –

"Wait, Rick!"

"Evie, no – wait!" Jonathan stumbled past the tent-flap as his sister went racing after her husband. _Oh, bloody hell!_ The sun and heat slammed into him like a hammer to the chest – his brother-in-law was running in this?

And so was Evie. _Blast it!_ Staggering through the sand, Jonathan hurtled after her. "Evie!"

She didn't pause; he could see the fenced-in area now, and through the blinding sun and sand made out the short blond figure of his nephew. Alex barreled forward, twisting free from the hold of a burly Medjai.

Panic had Jonathan staring, waiting for disaster to strike as the small form streaked over hot sand; but Alex barreled safely into his parents' arms. _Thank God._ He slowed his mad rush, walking the last few steps to join his family and heaving a relieved breath.

"That's it," Rick growled, arms protectively circling Jon's sister and nephew. Jonathan's brother-in-law kept a wary eye cast outside the small huddle they made under a scraggly Sycamore. "It's time we got to the bottom of this. C'mon."

And he was stalking away through the dappled shade offered by the Faiyum's trees, tugging Alex by one hand and Evie by the other. _Oh now what?_ Jonathan followed, shrugging at the sideways glances of several training Medjai as they passed.

"Rick, what are you going to do?" he heard his sister ask. Over their shoulders he could see the few permanent buildings hidden in the center of the Faiyum. One had two burly men posted at an opening covered by a canvas flap.

Rick didn't pause, slipping his hands free and storming toward the guards. "Stay here," he threw over his shoulder.

Jonathan snorted. _Evie? Stay? Didn't we just try this? _For all Rick O'Connell had been married to his sister for years, the man was incurably dense sometimes. But they only had a moment to think about it before Rick disappeared into the structure, guards barely giving him a second glance as he passed.

The thick slam of fist against flesh resounded through heavy canvas. Jonathan saw grey eyes widen, impossibly shocked, before his sister shoved into the hut, leaving him and Alex staring at each other.

As one, they blinked, and then scrambled past the cloth door beneath the shelter of mud bricks and wooden beams – and pulled up short.

Fletcher had been untied, and Jonathan could see why. The man was clad only in a thin shirt and trousers, boots missing. _Wouldn't get far without them on hot sand._ Not that he thought Fletcher would be going anywhere. Sweat coated his skin, but his lips were cracked and dry, dark eyes slitted with a combination of exhaustion and dehydration. Blood trailed from a lip newly split by his brother-in-law's knuckles.

Small arms suddenly clung to his waist; Alex pressed tightly against him. Jonathan dropped a hand to the boy's head.

Fletcher looked half-dead, with Rick's hand fisted at his collar the only thing holding him upright. _Dragging him up, more like._

Jonathan swallowed, turning Alex's face into his side with the half-formed thought that he didn't want his nephew seeing this. _My God._

Hanging from Rick's grip, Fletcher rasped, "_Met en tjen._"

A tiny gasp emerged from Alex, almost muffled where his nephew's face was pressed against his waistcoat, but not quite.

"What was that?" Jonathan sputtered, _feeling_ the foreign words resolve into meaning, somewhere deep in his brain. _No, no!_ It was happening again, the world slipping sideways in time and he was going _insane._ No. He wouldn't let it.

"He's delirious." Rick opened his fist, dropping the man back onto the thin pallet snugged up against one of the hut's brick walls.

"No, no he's not," Evie pushed forward to stand at her husband's shoulder. "That was Ancient Egyptian, Rick."

"You're kidding me." Incredulity stained every word, shining bright in Rick's face.

Jonathan couldn't tear his eyes from the – tortured – man in front of them, the same horrified fascination he felt with a rifle in his hands filling him now. And he was all too conscious of his nephew, a boy too clever by half, listening around his own shock and terror.

"What did he say?" Rick continued. _Relentless._

Jonathan stepped forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with his sister and her husband, pushing Alex behind him and taking a wincing look at the limp form. Familiarity arced through him like a live current, surprising him into silence. _I know him. How do I –_

"He swore," she said carefully.

_Evie's never 'careful'. _Up close, he could see the glint of a chain peeking out from the open collar of Fletcher's shirt. Jonathan frowned.

"Evie. What did he say?"

"_A'a hemet-nesew?_"

Every muscle in his body jerked. _Gods. When did he –_ Fletcher's eyes were opened now, unerringly fixed on Evie. Unease sat tightly in Jonathan's stomach at the glittering intensity in those eyes.

It bothered Rick too, if the way he stepped between the recumbent Fletcher and Evie was any indication.

"No, wait, Rick -"

"I want you out of here." Rick settled his hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes. "I want you safe."

"I'm not safe anywhere," Evie responded, meeting her husband's gaze steadily.

"_Sedjem en wi!_" Fletcher pleaded, looking past them as if they didn't even exist, seeing no one but Evie.

In that moment Jonathan saw his sister lose herself again in the skin of an ancient Princess, and couldn't help but hate the man who made it happen.

She slipped past Rick, crouching close to Fletcher's head, hand settling soothingly over his. "_Hetep, neb-i. Sedjem-i medew-tjen. Djed-i_."

"_Dewa-netjer_," he breathed. Dark eyes suddenly radiated pain, and Jonathan felt like an unwelcome observer. At his side, Alex's grip loosened, the curiosity Evie had passed to her son peeking out from behind his fear. But Rick stepped forward now, swinging the boy into his arms, and Jonathan let that be enough. "_Nenem-en-i_."

Evie nodded, expression unchanging.

Jonathan kept the words foreign, although he had grown up knowing them in another life, had studied them in this one. He _wasn't_ an ancient nobleman from Egypt, no matter their mother's blood. He was _Jonathan Carnahan,_ and utterly bullocks at translating.

So his blood didn't run cold at Fletcher's next words. It _didn't._

"_Khefty-ek, khefty net_ _per-a'a, a'nen-en_ _er taway_."

Evie gripped lax fingers, leaning forward urgently. "_Tjen?_ _Djed-i_."

Fletcher's head rolled a little against the pallet, eyes distant. "_Sekha-i ket_."

"_Djed-i_," his sister demanded.

But the man was fading fast, blinking with exhaustion or heat stroke or both. "_Iew binet hemsi-en deshret_."

And Evie stroked his hair comfortingly, voice a low murmur in the dead silence of the hut. "_Sedjer-ek, neb-i. Dewaw Ra ini-ef maw herew_."

-----------------

Fletcher's eyes closed, whole body relaxing into unconsciousness.

_Dammit. _Rick kept one arm on Evie, drawing her up against him, and away from the prisoner. Alex had wrapped both legs around his waist, clinging to his neck like a monkey.

Behind them, canvas _shush_ed – and he whirled, hand flying to his holster. Ardeth stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the scene.

"Did you find the man who threw the knife?" Evie stepped forward out of his hold, and Rick moved also, keeping pace with his wife.

The Medjai shook his head, face creasing in frustration. "We captured the assassin, but he attacked us in return. He is dead."

"_Damn_ it," Rick snapped.

"Mahmud is checking the body now, but there are no tattoos, no brands or scars to identify him," Ardeth continued. The Medjai stepped to the side of the unconscious prisoner, gauging his condition with a critical eye. "I saw no mark like this one." He turned over one lax wrist, revealing the Aten scar. "We will give him water tonight, I think."

Rick saw the reason. _He's no good to us dead._

"He spoke to us," Evie said quietly.

A black eyebrow arched. "He did?"

"In ancient Egyptian," she nodded. Alex moved to her side, nodding as well. "Yeah," he continued. "But it was weird, not they way it sounds from books at all."

The Medjai blinked, startled. "The spoken language of our ancestors has been lost for thousands of years. Your scholars have tried to put it together again, with some limited success."

Rick puzzled at the seeming non-sequitor for a moment. _The language used by the ancients. Not the same as the way we interpret their language today. But Evie could speak with him. _And Ahm Shere and his wife's strange memories – _previous life –_ came rushing back to him. "Oh, no."

"But it makes perfect sense," gray eyes sparked with enthusiasm. "Why would I be the only one affected by the turning of the Egyptian new year, when the Scorpion King awoke? His challenge was extended to anyone who could kill him -"

Jonathan's voice cut through their soft conversation. "I say, chaps, have a look at this." He was bent low by Fletcher's head, tugging at something around the man's neck.

_Jonathan!_ Rick stepped forward, wary of the prisoner waking, but his brother-in-law got the chain from around Fletcher's neck without incident, shifting back and peering at the object in the hut's low light.

Stepping closer, Rick hooked a finger in tiny metal links, lifting the necklace up from Jonathan's palm. On the chain were two circular metal disks, thin aluminum no larger than a pence coin. "Dogtags," he murmured, calluses rubbing over the tiny ingraining. He squinted at the writing, and stiffened.

"Mark O'Connell," Evie read the name that arced along the flat curve of the tag from around his shoulder. "First Lieutenant, Infantry N.A., USA."

"N.A.?" Jonathan scratched at brown hair.

Alex was wiggling closer, bouncing up on tip-toes to try to get a better look. Blue eyes shot wide at the name.

"National Army," Rick clarified, still feeling numb. He flipped the tag over, reading _317 M.G.BN._ "Machine Gun Battalion."

"O'Connell?" Ardeth asked, surprised.

"It's a common name." Rick's mouth was dry. _Would they take the subterfuge this far? _Could_ they? What purpose would it serve?_

Evie gave him a wry smile. "Not _that_ common."

"Are those from the Great War, then, Dad?" Alex reached a hand up, and Rick passed them over. Even at eight, the boy was very much like his mother; as a budding archaeologist, there was no need to tell him to be careful.

"I think so," Rick nodded. He glanced to the unconscious form once more. _No wonder he didn't break under torture._ To survive that conflict, the man had to be tougher than he let on. But he was only a few years older than Rick himself. "He must have just been old enough to enlist."

"The Great War," Ardeth murmured, and Rick turned. The Medjai's face was drawn in concentration.

"America entered the fighting in 1918," Evie added. She'd wrapped one arm around Alex's shoulders, and he was rubbing a delicate finger over the dogtags, leaning into her body.

Ardeth's lips thinned. "That would be about sixteen years ago, yes?"

"Yeah, just about." Rick kept one eye on the prisoner. "Why?"

The Medjai folded his arms across his chest, one shoulder brushing against mud brick. "The scar on his wrist is old – sixteen years, by his telling. If he was truly in the Great War, it is unlikely he fell in with remnants of the Aten priesthood at that time."

"Unlikely but not impossible," Rick pointed out. _But it does stretch the bounds of believability. _The implication, that an Aten priesthood had existed with plans to kill Evie even then, pushed the theory still further into improbability.

Jonathan grunted. "But that still doesn't explain why these tags say his name is Mark _O'Connell_, when he introduced himself as Mark _Fletcher._"

He couldn't stop staring at the unconscious man, and he knew it was unnerving the others.

"Rick?" Evie tugged gently at his arm, and he turned to her, love and confusion warring within him. _Always to her._ Alex wrapped an arm as high as he could reach, face upturned, hugging his leg.

"I think we should get some water," Rick tried a smile for them, thought it felt weak. "And ask him."

-----------------

_Light. Cool._

What . . . ?

The last memory he had was filled with burning thirst, unbearable heat, a bright burst of pain. The knowledge that he was _dying,_ Ra a relentless burning torment in the sky, sand harsh against his bare feet . . . and then a ringing blow had pulled him from the memory. The ache was still there, localized in his split lip and bruised cheek, spreading throughout his body.

The next sensation Mark registered was _wet_ – the crazed desire for water had eased, and there was a damp cloth resting across his forehead. _Who?_

The buzzing in his ears died away quickly as he brought a hand to his head, fighting the quicksand that seemed to grip every limb in lethargy. When it was gone he realized it for what it was. _Conversation. Not alone._ But as he blinked his eyes open he could feel that he was less Meren, now; the nobleman having retreated to the back of his mind in exhaustion.

"You're awake."

The man who had first interrogated him, who he suspected commanded his guards and many of the others Mark knew must live in the oasis. He only blinked, mind still struggling free from the last shreds of darkness.

He'd been moved.

The tent was light and airy, and there were goose-down pillows under him rather than a thin mat of woven grass and hard reeds. He'd been untied.

_What's going on?_

But he thought that maybe he knew, though he'd only heard stories about this. He hadn't been with the Germans long enough for them to move from physical games to mind games. Mark ignored the trembling in his muscles, shoving slowly upright. Immediately, a set of hands settled against his back, guiding him up.

But the gray eyes that met his weren't at all what he expected. Evelyn O'Connell, Curator of the British Museum, was holding out a cup. He could smell the water.

"_Sewer-ek, khenmes_," she offered softly.

At the sound of her voice, something in him was yanked to attention, lowering his head and turning his gaze to the floor. "_Nebet-nesew, a'nkhew, senbew, wedjaw_."

And just as quickly it faded away again, leaving Mark to jerk back, head snapping up, eyes wide. _Damn._ He'd mostly gotten used to having an ancient spymaster taking up residence in his brain, but that was the soul of the man and not the façade Meren threw into place when acting as a courtier. Not the manners and automatic obeisance and careful moderation of word and expression.

"Okay. That was weird," announced another voice. Mark looked, and found Rick O'Connell leaning against the main tentpole a few feet away. His distance from his wife was explained by the large knife he was whetting, blue eyes never leaving him.

"You're telling me," Mark muttered, words spilling free before he could censor himself. The heat had pulled that out of him, leaving him feeling oddly insubstantial and wrung thin as spun glass.

On O'Connell's other side, Alex and Carnahan were seated, staring at him curiously. _Who brings their family to an interrogation?_

Mark opened his mouth without knowing what was going to come out. "What the hell is this?"

"We were hoping you could tell us that, Mr. O'Connell," the Arab man said, positioned by tent flaps tied by crossed string.

_Oh, damn._ He reached for his collar, suddenly feeling the slight weight missing from around his neck. Rick O'Connell held up a hand, the gentle _clink_ of metal almost lost beneath the sound of wind outside the tent. Mark scowled.

The tags were tossed his way; he caught them before they hit the ground-cover. "I was born Mark O'Connell," he admitted, clasping the chain around his neck. "My family died when I was a child. Fletcher was the name of the family that took me in; I've been using it longer than I've been using my birth name, especially when I'm on business for the ranch."

"And the tags?" Rick inquired coolly.

Mark met the blue stare with a dark one of his own, sliding the metal discs out of sight beneath his shirt. "If I was going to die, I wanted to be buried under my own name." _Won't be that lucky this time around, I don't think._

Frozen blue refused to relent. "What about the scar on your wrist?"

_God._ It would all come down to that, wouldn't it? The irony surprised a harsh chuckle from him. "It's a long story." And it was downright frightening how much his history echoed with Meren's. _Don't think on that now._

"We have time," Evelyn offered, voice quiet.

_If someone really is trying to kill her, that's a lie._ He couldn't look at her, not when he didn't know what reactions might be dredged up from the man inside him. But maybe, just maybe, they were actually listening, instead of trying to play with his head. _Try. See what happens._

Mark took a deep breath. "When I was about seven, my parents and my younger brother went on a trip to Egypt." The _why_ was unimportant, and he _really_ didn't want to bring that up either; there would be no way they would trust him if he did, just by association. "I was recovering from the measles at the time. They left me with my father's closest friend, Adam Fletcher, and his family."

He shoved the memories back, pulling free only the pertinent details. "I got one package, two months into their trip. In it was a bronze disc with stylized rays ending in tiny hands – the Aten," he rubbed his wrist reflexively. "And a few letters. Then nothing, for weeks. They were planning to be gone for several months, so no one thought much of it when half a year had passed and they were still in Egypt. Finally, I got a telegram from a friend they had met up with in Cairo, informing me that they had contracted a fever and died."

_Momma. Dad. _No mention of his little brother, though. There never had been.

Memory crowded in on him, jabbering and cawing for attention. Mark swallowed, fixing his eyes determinedly on the middle space that hung empty between Rick O'Connell and himself. "I kept the disc on me then, for sentimental reasons. Forgot about it most of the time, to tell you the truth. I didn't realize I'd shipped out with it until I stopped some kid from picking my pocket in the trenches, first week in." _This_ was the difficult part. "The third action my battalion saw was a disaster for our unit. The Germans swept through our line, and I was lucky enough to be captured instead of killed." Teeth bared in something less than a smile.

"They . . . _questioned_ me for a few days, but I was low-level Infantry, didn't know much, and they weren't really interested even if I'd had anything to say. Which I didn't. The rest of the time they were just amusing themselves." He held up his wrist in the silence, letting the scar speak for itself. "Anyway, I never saw the thing again after that." One of his tormentors had probably pocketed it as a trophy, or taken it home to give to his girl.

"You knew it was the Aten," Carnahan pointed out, breaking the flow of thought. At his side young Alex nodded, though the boy was frowning in thought.

_Unbelievable._ "I can read," Mark flung back. He let himself slump back against goose-down, the telling having drained from him what little the ravaging heat and dehydration hadn't touched.

"I'm more interesting in finding out where you learned to speak ancient Egyptian," his sister interjected.

_Great. Just . . . great._ How to explain this? _I can't even make myself believe it, half the time. _Mark rubbed a hand over his face, at a loss.

"You started having dreams," she continued quietly. Goose-down rustled as she leant forward, elbows propped on crossed legs. "About four months ago, it would be now. Vivid ones. And then they started happening while you were awake."

He went very still, shock freezing his blood. After a long moment of silence, Mark licked dry lips, and looked up. "How do you know that?"

"So it's true," O'Connell muttered, knuckles whitening on the knife handle.

Mark's jaw clenched. _Fiends of the netherworld!_ He knew better than to give away _anything_ so easily.

Raising the blade as if examining the edge, blue eyes shot to his and held. O'Connell's face was bland, as pleasant as if he was holding conversation over his breakfast table – except for the edge of danger sliding through his tone. "So in your past life, you were a member of the priesthood of the Aten?"

"What?" Mark's jaw dropped, Meren's affront washing into disbelief. _Past life? _"You're insane."

The Arab stepped forward, and Mark didn't know his name or his face, but _that movement_ was so familiar. . . He tilted his head, searching his memories.

Then the man spoke. "No," he was resting one hand thoughtfully on the long ivory handle of a wickedly curved blade. "I know you, somehow." Black eyes widened. "_Neb-i Meren?_"

Memory tumbled loose; Mark gasped. _Abu?_

* * *

**A/N2 & Translations:** A note here. I have no idea of the sentence structure used in Ancient Egyptian, so I used the same word order that you'd find in English, except where the site I used as a dictionary indicated otherwise. And in two cases – the words _met_ and _nebew-nesew _– I completely made up the word. There are a number of other grammatical and technical problems with this Egyptian as well which I won't go into here (most of which are down to me), but just so you know, it's in no way accurate _at all._

_Met en tjen_ – death to you.

_A'a hemet-nesew_ – Great Royal Wife

_Sedjem en wi!_ – Listen to me!

_Hetep, neb-i. Sedjem-i medew-tjen. Djed-i_. – Peace, my lord. I hear your words. Tell me.

_Dewa-netjer_ – thank god.

_Nenem-en-i_ - I made a mistake.

_Khefty-ek, khefty net_ _per-a'a, a'nen-en_ _er taway_ – Your enemy, the enemy of Pharaoh, has returned to the Black Lands.

_Tjen?_ _Djed-i._ – Where? Tell me.

_Sekha-i ket_ – I remember little.

_Iew binet hemsi-en deshret_ – Evil lives in the desert.

_Sedjer-ek, neb-i. Dewaw Ra ini-ef maw herew._ – Sleep, my lord. Tomorrow Ra brings a new day.

_Sewer-ek, khenmes_ – Drink, friend.

_Nebet-nesew, a'nkhew, senbew, wedjaw _– Majesty, life, health, prosperity. (a greeting)

_Hundesohn_ – (German) – son of a bitch

_Neb-i Meren_ – My Lord Meren


End file.
